


Eight Seconds

by wonder_boy



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Depression, Dissociation, Emotional Manipulation, Found Family, Gen, Hallucinations, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Malcolm Bright Gets a Hug, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Minor Character Death, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:27:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 33,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25633540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wonder_boy/pseuds/wonder_boy
Summary: Old habits die hard. Malcolm doesn't know how to cope with being tormented by his father and the new case isn't making his life any easier. As the case starts to take a turn for the worse, Malcolm struggles to stay afloat as his inner demons get the best of him. Thankfully, he has a team that's there to help pick up the pieces.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright, Malcolm Bright & Dani Powell, Malcolm Bright & JT Tarmel, Malcolm Bright & Martin Whitly
Comments: 33
Kudos: 138





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rolypoly_panda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rolypoly_panda/gifts).



> First off, I just want to say thank you to Linc for always sticking around and helping me whenever I was having a tough time. This is for you! Secondly, I'd like to thank Ace for being an amazing beta because I don't know what this fic would look like without your help! To those who have clicked, please be mindful of the tags as there are multiple depictions (3 in total) of self-harm in this fic. Take care of yourselves first, as I know this can be a triggering topic for some. Read at your own risk.
> 
> Other than that, please enjoy!

Malcolm doesn’t waste time at his minibar tonight.

He needs something strong. He needs something that’ll knock him on his ass so quick he won’t have to think about how much sleep he’s going to get. No ice, no garnishes; right now, he just needs to forget.

He doesn’t know why he continues to see his father. Over and over, he finds himself in the same hole Martin put him in all those years ago, one filled with agonizing trauma and overwhelming guilt that he can’t seem to escape.

Tonight, his father took him apart. He wasn’t one to play nice this time around. Instead, he dropped the façade and tore into Malcolm so deep that it managed to get under his skin. He knows what kind of games his father likes to play, but it never stopped him from walking into the lion’s den and expecting a different outcome.

He reminded Malcolm of his failures. He reminded him that it was his own fault for ruining his life, not Martin’s. He kept telling him that he would’ve made a name for himself, he would’ve been happy, healthy, and married to the most beautiful girl in New York with a picture perfect family. But no, he just had to stick his nose where it didn’t belong.

It’s Malcolm’s fault for destroying his only chance at a normal life, Martin shouted, and he should stop blaming his trauma on his father.

Walking over to his selection, Malcolm reaches for the bourbon and pulls a small glass from the cabinet. He pulls off the top and pours, watching the promise of stupor fall into the bottom of the glass.

He just wants to scream.

Fate isn’t fair. Why him? Why does it have to be him? Why can’t he be normal – just for _one_ day, why can’t he be normal? Why is his brain wired the way it is? Why does he have to think so much all the time? It’s not fair.

Tears prick at the corners of his eyes but he immediately wipes them away with his palm. He feels pathetic. His eyes are still misty, so he scrubs at them, clenching his teeth in frustration because he’s already crying and he hasn’t had a sip of alcohol yet. If only his father could see his star creation right now.

At least the glass is half full.

Malcolm takes a seat in the corner of his leather sofa, draping his free arm over the armrest. He doesn’t sip like he should. Instead, he chugs a good amount before putting the glass down next to him, ignoring the quiet chirps of Sunshine in her cage. He rubs his face with his hands, pulling at his skin until it hurts, stopping when his stubble feels too prickly.

He stares at a spot on the floor. His mind is racing, his subconscious picking at every memory, every insecurity, every flaw, and every little thing that’s completely and utterly wrong about him and putting it on display on the big screen. His nightmare of a life loops in his head without permission – without warning – and tries to bury him under the weight of his father’s misdeeds.

The disappointment in Martin’s eyes haunts him to this day. He betrayed him by leaving him and to make it worse, he went to join the same group of people who sent him away to Claremont. It was a good fit for him, he became someone he could be proud of despite his parents’ rejection to join the FBI. But, like fate would have it, his father was right in the end.

The FBI never accepted him and he ended up in the same spot he did ten years ago.

Three swigs of bourbon and it’s finished. He turns the glass in his hand, watching the very last drop change shape sliding from one edge to the other. It’s not strong enough.

He gets up to pour himself another full glass.

The bottle comes with him when he moves to sit on the couch again. Another three swigs and the drink is gone. He can feel the buzz start to sink in, warmth pooling in his stomach. The burn in his throat irritates him but he’s not doing this for comfort. He rests the back of his neck on the top of the couch and stares at the ceiling.

Why does it have to be this way?

Condemned to a life of suffering while his serial killer father sits in a cushioned cell. Sure, the bed isn’t as soft as his and the food in Claremont doesn’t compare to the five star dinners he’s used to but at least he can sleep through the night without interruption. At least he can finish his meals and hold his food down; Malcolm can’t remember the last time he did either of those things.

He can’t remember much of anything. Days blur together, nights are filled with terror and regret, time never slows, and the memories of when it all went wrong hide in locked trunks and missing girls. Nothing within his reach is tangible. The only facet of certainty in his life right now is this bottle of bourbon and–

“Oh,” he mutters. Well, _there’s_ an idea.

His over-intrusive mind supplies him with another solution. One more numbing, more effective, more _permanent_ than a drunken haze that’s gone with some aspirin and a glass of water. Results come faster than a slow buzz. Alcohol buries his pain, temporarily erasing it without ever doing anything about it.

He doesn’t want to sit in his father’s wreckage. He needs to do something about it. Pity parties are for children.

Malcolm gets up from his couch with the bottle in one hand and his empty glass in the other. He abandons the drinking glass by his selection, his mind slowing his movements and right behind it are his thoughts.

He pads through his loft like he’s sleepwalking, straight through the space with nowhere to go. Sunshine keeps calling to him but he can feel himself slipping deeper into the depths of his mind.

The door opens to the bathroom and he flicks the light on. With no intention of turning back, he stands in the doorway looking down at the blue tile as reality starts to sink in. Malcolm locks the door behind him even though he doesn’t need to. Under hooded eyes, he gets down on his knees to open the cabinet under his sink.

He searches through the endless hair and skin care bottles. Hidden in the right corner of the cabinet is a pack of disposable razors he’s been thinking about for all of five minutes. He reaches out and grabs the open pack. His legs fold under him as he sits on his heels, staring down at his four options as if they are each designed to do something different.

His heart starts to pound against his chest. He inhales, counts to four, then exhales. It’s just nerves. Another inhale and exhale, in and out.

His hands stop shaking. They’re still, clutching the plastic that’s holding the blades in their own slots, ready to be used. He shifts his legs so he’s sitting crisscrossed. He pulls one from its slot and inspects it.

The metal shines against the dim lights, still bright enough to give off a smooth and shiny gray. He flips it in his fingers, getting a small taste of what’s to come when the long edge lightly scratches the surface of his fingertips. The edges are sharp like they should be; no lint or dust bunnies to get in the way or any weird black spots of mold or brown rust to make him think twice.

It’s perfectly clean.

Malcolm sets the spare blades to the side. He undoes his collar and unbuttons the rest before peeling back his shirt at his shoulders so he can have access. Faded scars from previous years make themselves known, physical reminders of a time when he wasn’t old enough to drink but his intense hatred gnawed at him. Nobody knew, and he wanted it to stay that way.

Nobody knew except Jackie. She’d cleaned up his mess before, expressing her horror while trying to comfort a distressed teenager that fled from his home to be with her. He made her promise not to tell Gil and his mother, and she made him promise that he would never do it again.

Jackie understood why he did it. In the end, she couldn’t help him. In the end, the secret died with her.

He inhales sharply, holds for four seconds and shakily exhales. He grips the blade a little harder and hovers it over the space where he wants to make his mark. He slowly lifts the blade to his skin, not moving just yet.

The tears are back. All of the hurt, pain, guilt, and humiliation surge forward, consuming him, suffocating him until it’s too hard to breathe.

It’s not fair. It’s just not fair.

He presses down as anger fills him, fueled by a pain so heavy he can’t describe it. The silver edge is consistent; it’s all up to him now.

His mind goes blank. Overwhelmed by the suffering he’s endured for so long, he ceases to form anything remotely coherent and detaches himself from it all.

A sob retches its way out of his throat. He tries to quiet his cries as if he were fourteen again living at the estate but he remembers very quickly that he’s living in the loft. Alone.

If he screamed, no one would hear him, and if he killed himself at this very moment, no one would find his body for days. Maybe it’s better that way.

He breaks down, choking on a sob that bounces off the walls, scratching his throat as tears fall down his cheeks, crying at the loneliness of it all.

Survival is different for everyone. It’s his rationale – he has to do what he needs to survive. What other option does he have? He’s tried everything in the book and still, infuriatingly still, his father continues to take everything from him. He’d lost his shot at living a normal life a long time ago.

The thought doesn’t have a chance to evolve. He shuts it down until his eyes blur with so many tears that he can’t see what he’s doing. There’s only the burn left behind in its wake.

Here, on the cold tile of his bathroom, Malcolm knows that thoughts aren’t necessary. Emotions drive his motive, and if they lead him to a bloody shoulder with jagged scars, then so be it.

He stops.

Rubbing his tears away with the back of his hand, Malcolm stares at the carnage left by his own hands. He can’t see underneath the mat of red but he doesn’t need to. His shoulder is left throbbing, pulsing against the fresh tears in his skin.

He needs to clean up. Leaving traces of evidence is incriminating, so he needs to wrap these well tonight.

Standing on his own two feet, Malcolm grabs a small hand towel from the pile by his sink and turns the hot water on. When it’s warm enough, he runs the hand towel under it with just enough water to avoid soaking it completely.

He doesn’t remember what happens after that. His mind drifts off elsewhere to protect him from himself, though he absently thinks that it may be too late for that. Suddenly, he’s in his restraints all bandaged up with a clean gray t-shirt on and fresh sweats to match. There’s the familiar aftertaste of spearmint in his mouth too. At least he was conscious of his hygiene.

Malcolm pulls the covers over his body, wincing at the pull in his shoulder, laying on his right side to take the pressure off. He nestles his head into his pillow and closes his eyes with a slight frown. He relaxes into the sheets, letting all of the tension leave his body as he tries to relax.

Sleeping is better than he expected.

It’s nowhere near something healthy or desirable, but in Malcolm’s case, he considers it to be one of the better nights he’s had in weeks. Maybe it’s the mental exhaustion, or maybe it’s his body trying to recuperate after what he’s done to it. He’s not sure.

Regardless, he feels rested and ready to take on the day. As if on cue, his phone rings, and he reaches over to pull it off the charger to answer it.

“Kid?”

Of course it’s Gil. Thankfully, it’s not his mother this time. “Good morning,” he says, fighting a yawn. “I need you here as soon as possible. I’ll explain everything later.”

Malcolm doesn’t get the chance to respond because the phone goes dead and he’s left staring at his screen, still in his restraints. He shrugs it off and unhooks himself from his bed. He winces as he sits up, feeling his muscles pull at the tears again even though he’s used to the soreness of it.

It’s not like Gil to call in a panic.

Whatever this case may be, he’s almost excited to get his hands dirty again. An important case means a distraction, an opportunity to bury himself in a case and keep his mind occupied and away from the bullshit he can’t deal with at the moment.

Dragging himself from his soft satin sheets, Malcolm finally leaves his bed and heads for the shower to get ready for work.

* * *

Sipping a small cup of coffee, Malcolm walks into the precinct with his shaky hand hiding in the pocket of the navy pants he’s chosen for today. No wind in his sails but at least he showed up when Gil called. Saying no to case is a cause for concern, and the last thing he wants right now is unnecessary attention.

It sounded urgent on the phone, which means he’s needed, which, after last night, feels _really_ good to hear.

The navy suit he’s wearing is one of his more comfortable, the design plain with little accents on the insides.

Most importantly, he likes the feel of the smooth fabric on his skin; it’s tailored to his liking, fitted but not too tight, made from the softest material money can buy. He especially likes it because it doesn’t scratch against his hidden scars. The touch of his inner sleeves is welcoming, so inviting that he almost forgets that they’re even there.

The coffee never makes it out of the bullpen as Malcolm tosses it in a trashcan, half full. He finds Dani perched on her desk with JT leaning on the edge of her cubicle holding his own cup of coffee. Gil’s office door is shut from where he can see and the blinds are drawn, so he clears the thought of seeing him first thing this morning. It’s only seconds before JT and Dani spot his navy jacket heading their way from across the bullpen.

“I don’t think I’ve seen this suit before,” Dani comments, looking him up and down with a smirk. “It’s nice.”

Malcolm takes a quick look at himself with a small blush as if he’s never been complimented before. “Thank you, Dani.”

JT huffs beside him with a shrug, “I think it’s alright.”

They eye each other with a playful grin, but JT sips at his coffee as if he didn’t say anything at all. “Morning to you too, JT,” Malcolm says.

Dani snickers with her hand over her mouth and lightly pushes JT’s arm. “It’s looking a little crazy in here,” Malcolm says, watching a cop hastily file a report.

He takes note of the handful of officers writing reports, speed walking through the bullpen, and the buzz of detectives arguing among themselves in sections. Overall, the bullpen is bursting with activity. The longer he takes in the tone of the room, reading the tells from people’s faces and seeing the frustration in their body language, the more he realizes it’s a panicked frenzy of law enforcement.

“What’s happening?” he asks, turning his head back.

Dani and JT share a look. It’s obvious they know something he doesn’t, and their poor attempts at trying to hide whatever it is don’t go unnoticed. Dani eyes the ground, chewing on her bottom lip while JT puts his cup down with a sour expression and runs a hand down his face. Their exhaustion is mutual.

“Guys. What’s going on?”

It’s one thing to be out of the loop in high school, but it’s another thing to come back to work after two days to the atmosphere drastically changed. Malcolm stares at them, waiting for an answer. Neither of them appear to be moving anytime soon, which starts to get frustrating. “Do I need to ask Gil instead?” The mention of his name gets their attention, only frustrating Malcolm even more.

“Don’t go in there, Bright,” Dani warns, her face hardening into something neutral.

“Care to tell me why I shouldn’t?” he challenges her, staring down from where he stands with his brows raised in question.

“Dude, relax,” JT grumbles in annoyance. “Commissioner’s in there.”

He visibly deflates, shoulders slacking as he releases the tension in his arms. “Oh.” JT just shakes his head and trains his attention somewhere else.

Malcolm looks back at the chaos in the bullpen, still trying to figure out why this is the best kept secret in all of New York. Impatience is the firestarter in both detectives and officers alike, arguing with each other over something imperative, searching for a quick solution to a problem he doesn’t know about.

“Well, it must be _pretty_ serious if the Commissioner’s here.”

“Yeah,” Dani fixes her position to sitting on her desk instead, “so just sit tight for now. Gil’s going to brief us when they’re done.”

As if on cue, the click of his office door echoes through the precinct like a bullet, the ricochet loud enough to stop everyone’s conversations. Their heads turn to face the two figures emerging from the Lieutenant’s office, the tension skyrocketing as everyone stands in intense silence, holding their breath, waiting for their orders.

Malcolm surveys the immediate reactions of the room. It’s a level of seriousness and cooperation with everyone agreeing on one common goal and understanding just how deep the treacherous waters they were treading through.

He sees Gil standing next to their Commissioner with a worn look he hasn’t seen in years. His eye bags are more prominent now, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that he hasn’t had a good night’s rest in days. A small pang of guilt runs through Malcolm seeing him like that. He wishes he would’ve called sooner – his mind and body need to stay in tip top shape, not running himself ragged all around New York even though he’s been their Lieutenant for years now.

Malcolm swallows hard. This can’t be good.

He finds out through gritted teeth and passive frustration that there’s been an uptick in gang activity in not just Manhattan but the greater surrounding areas as well.

They caught a whiff of a new drug that’s on the market, one that’s easy to obtain if you know the right people but hard to catch if you’re out of the loop. Not only are they struggling to trace it, but piles of bodies are starting to show up as well. Every precinct from the Bronx to Lower Manhattan is on alert, but this activity has been happening right under their nose for weeks, which means that they are behind.

Innocent families are getting caught in the crosshairs and poverty-stricken teens are looking to make quick cash grabs at any given opportunity. Stray bullets in broad daylight and kids going missing is a recipe for disaster.

“This has gotten out of hand and people are paying the price for it,” Gil says, the anger clear as day on his face. “I was careless and unaware of the severity that we are dealing with right now, and I will _not_ make that same mistake again. I have your assignments, and I am only going to say them once.”

Gil has four separate tasks for his precinct: one group of officers are set in their routes, others are monitoring certain areas for suspicious activity, a handful tasked with going undercover, and a team to handle recovery in the hardest hit areas. Everyone moves the second they’re dismissed, no questions. The Commissioner hangs around only for a few more minutes. When he exits the building, Gil leans on the doorframe, looking around for his own team.

They’re looking for him too, because their eyes meet with the same determination. Without having to signal to them, Gil heads back into his office with the door open.

Gil doesn’t talk long. For the most part, Malcolm quietly observes. There’s a certain way Gil runs his precinct, and the last thing he wants to do is make a mess where he’s not supposed to be. He doesn’t have extensive knowledge of New York street gangs and how they move, so he’s out of his element. He’s there to consult on profiles and that’s it. Gil doesn’t need him playing hero right now.

“You’re dismissed,” Gil says.

His words are final. JT and Dani don’t question him either. Like everyone else, they leave without a moment’s hesitation to cover their assignment.

Malcolm awkwardly stands by his desk while Gil briefly sifts through reports with his head leaning on his fist. He starts to wonder if Gil forgot he was still standing in the room without his own assignment. He quickly realizes that Gil hasn’t acknowledged him this entire time, amplifying the tiny voice of doubt in the back of his mind.

Seeds of doubt bloom into insecurity as the silence carries on. His mouth opens and closes just as quickly, scaling back what could be a very bad idea.

Was he even supposed to be here?

“Bright.”

He flinches at the call of his name.

“Yes?”

Gil lets the papers fall from his hand onto his desk in disarray. He binds his fingers together and places them on top of the papers, staring off to the side. He’s thinking of saying something, but he’s struggling to find the right words to say it.

It’s the way he groans in frustration that worries Malcolm. Gil rubs his face in his hands before he eventually stands up from behind his desk. Without looking at him, Gil starts to move towards the door and Malcolm awkwardly stays put. “Walk with me.”

Malcolm follows him out of his office and closes the door behind him. He keeps his distance while walking behind him, keeping his eyes on the ground but stealing a few quick glances along the way.

Gil takes him down to the interrogation room. In a turn of unusual events, there are two officers standing on either side of the door, guarding it with heavy observation like someone with high importance is on the other side of the glass.

Did they manage to capture one of the ring leaders? A runner?

“Give me five minutes.” It’s an order, not a suggestion. The two officers step away from the door and start walking towards the end of the hallway to keep watch. Gil turns the handle and pushes the door open, holding it for Malcolm to walk in after him.

“What’s going on?” Malcolm asks.

Gil nods at the glass and locks the door.

Malcolm turns to the gray table on the other side and immediately frowns.

Across the way sit two young girls, and Malcolm looks back at Gil for an explanation.

“Meet Sydney, the girl on the right, age six and her older sister Max on the left, age thirteen.” Malcolm takes another look at the girls so he can put a name to a face. They’re sitting quietly, sipping on a bottle of water and devouring some snacks from the breakroom.

Their features are vastly different from the other. Both girls have matted hair, probably in need of a good wash. They’re especially thin for their age, and their clothes are worn, hanging off their arms and dirty with a few holes in the pants. Their black shoes are falling apart at the seams, laces all chewed up and soles sticking out from the sides.

He remembers the officers keeping watch at the door. “Why are they here? Did you call their parents?”

Gil sighs heavily, rocking on his heels. “They came in early this morning. The older sister demanded she see whoever was in charge, so an officer came to get me. They’re here because their father is missing. She said he was in trouble with some bad people. Last night he didn’t come home, and they came here wanting us to find him.”

Malcolm’s eyes never leave them. Max continues to clean up after her younger sister, wiping away her crumbs and cleaning off her shirt when she accidentally spills water from the bottle that looks too big to hold. It takes him back to the days when he had to take care of Ainsley when his mother wasn’t around to bother.

Malcolm looks at Sydney a little closer, walking up to the glass. He takes note of her smaller eyes and the smooth area above her thin top lip, watching how her body movements are slightly different from Max’s. He knows what it means and yet it doesn’t stop his heart from breaking.

“Her mother was an alcoholic,” he comments out loud. “And _her_ mother–” he glances over at Max. “–probably abandoned her when she was just a baby.”

Gil frowns. “I didn’t ask you to profile them, Bright.”

Malcolm can hear the subtle hint of anger in his tone and mentally kicks himself for it. “Sorry.” He clasps his hands together in front of him, keeping his mouth shut.

“I’ve got a social worker on the way so we can figure out what to do with them. In the meantime–” Gil sticks his hand in his pocket and pulls out a photo. “–we’ll be looking for this man.”

Malcolm takes the wallet photo from his hand. “Is this their father?”

Gil nods, staring through the glass.

“We think his disappearance is connected to the recent gang activity. Max mentioned that strangers kept coming to their house to collect something from their dad, which means he’s probably a runner or a middleman of sorts. Either way, he has a direct line, so if we can find him, then we’ve got an angle to work with. I’ve got Dani and JT checking out their spot right now.”

It clicks. This has to be the assignment they refused to tell him about earlier. Judging by the security and how delicate Gil is being about giving out this information, it’s not to be taken lightly.

He can tell how much thought Gil’s given this. These little girls’ lives are at risk. Gil can’t send them home if there’s no one there, especially if there are dangerous people after their father. Malcolm looks across the way again, sighing.

Those girls are alone without their father. If this plan fails, they’ll be lost in the system to fend for themselves. He can feel the weight of responsibility sit on his shoulders, knowing that there’s no room for error.

“Can I talk to them?”

Gil sends him a stern look. “Keep your distance, Bright. I don’t want you going in there making promises you can’t keep.”

Malcolm scoffs, suddenly irritated. “I’m not some rookie detective, Gil, I know what I’m doing.”

Gil turns on his heel to face Malcolm, arms crossed with a scowl to match. “I’m saying that it’s important that you maintain your distance while I try to sort this out. Gangs are no walk in the park, Bright, and they’ve already claimed more lives than we can track. Those two girls are in the middle of it which means their lives are my responsibility. I can’t risk giving them hope when I know that they could be next.”

Their eyes are fixed on each other. Neither one wants to back down from their stance. Malcolm clutches his fists at his sides to quell some of his own frustration while Gil stares daggers into him, all of his pent up stress from this hellish morning threatening to spill over.

It’s a task that feels too big to handle all at once, too big to coordinate, and too big to mess up. They can’t afford to make any mistakes, no matter how small and trivial they may seem on the surface.

Gil straightens up his back, leaning on his heels and directing his eyes back to the girls. “You’re here to catch the bad guys. That’s your job.”

As much as it pains him, Malcolm knows Gil has a point. He also knows it’s petty and immature of him to be upset by being told how to do his job and a part of his hidden insecurity lets the words sting like adding insult to injury.

He understands the pressure Gil is under but it still hurts. He knows this feeling is irrational but it still hurts. He knows he doesn’t mean anything by it but it _still hurts_.

“Excuse me,” Malcolm mumbles. He straightens his jacket and heads for the door.

Malcolm breezes past the officers standing at the end of the hallway and makes his way towards the bathroom. He notices a few random looks he’s given, trying to figure out why they–

_Oh right, why the hell am I even here?_

The door swings open when he shoves it forward. He does a quick check to see if anyone’s in there or hiding in the stalls. When the coast is clear, he goes into one of the stalls and immediately locks the door behind him.

The anger from earlier sits on his chest. He rips off his suit jacket and hangs it up on the door, then he loosens his tie and starts to unbutton his shirt. The last thing he needs right now is to be treated like a child. Wasn’t Gil the one who called him in the first place?

Buttons almost fly off the threads as his fingers tear through them, trying to work his shirt open with haste. He can’t breathe under the grip of his collar. The faster he can get his shirt off, the quicker he can quiet the rage stewing inside of him that burns like a boiling kettle.

The shirt is finally undone, and Malcolm immediately tries to get one of his arms free from the sleeves. He grunts when he feels the cuffs snag his wrists, so he has to stop and undo them. When his left wrist is finally free, he pulls on the end of the sleeve to pull his arm out so he can have access to his shoulder.

He pauses. The bandages are still holding from last night.

Then it’s Gil in his ear again. Gil and every other commanding officer all the way back to his first orientation at Quantico. His anger boils as he’s infuriated by feeling belittled like he doesn’t know how to do his job. Like he’s in the way.

A part of his mind rationalizes that Gil’s under insurmountable pressure, stressed beyond what he can handle because so many families are counting on him to make sure that their loved ones get home safe. It’s not something to get so worked up over, he knows this.

He knows this, and yet his insecurity has him by the throat, and he just needs to _breathe_.

Malcolm wraps his hand around his shoulder and _squeezes._

His nails dig into the tender flesh from the outside. He bites down on his crooked tie when he feels a surge of anger course through him, prompting him to squeeze some more as his knuckles turn white and eyes shut tight as his arm lights on fire.

He needs it to stop. It doesn’t feel like enough.

A spot near his chest is particularly sore. After a few seconds of poking around, Malcolm eventually finds a cushion in his skin that’s still too tender to the touch.

It’s the perfect spot.

Leaning his back against the door of the stall and his chest heaving with exertion, Malcolm is blindsided by his own emotions. He presses down, digging his nails so deep that he sees stars. The pain is nearly unbearable, so he presses down harder until he feels something wet soak his fingers. Tears sting at the corners of his eyes but they don’t fall.

He knows he deserves the pain. It’s punishment for being a burden wherever he goes, always unwanted, always taking up space, always a nuisance to everyone around him and wreaking havoc like a child who doesn’t know what they are doing. Like someone who doesn’t know how to do their _job_.

It gets to a point where his hand starts to cramp. He finally pulls off the wound and opens his eyes to see the damage he left. Sure enough, the sore scar opened up again, filling his bandage with enough blood that he needs to get it changed. Malcolm looks down at his bloodied fingers and wipes the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand.

He wheezes, not realizing he’s been holding his breath the entire time. His lungs expand like a tight band has been taken off as he greedily takes in air, slumping against the door with his head thrown back. A few loose strands fall on the side of his face and he shuts his eyes again to focus on breathing, letting his thoughts drift go so he can be present.

The pain ebbs and flows. It comes and goes in waves, carefully reminding him of what he’s done. Everything becomes clearer when he can breathe better.

He looks down at his shoulder again to inspect it. It won’t bleed through and stain his suit, but he knows he needs to wrap it up again so it doesn’t leak into his shirt. In the event he takes off his suit jacket, everyone will see it.

Shoving the thoughts away, Malcolm stuffs the bloody patch with some strips of toilet paper and decides he’ll deal with it later. He’s been gone long enough that Gil might start asking questions, so he hurries his clean up, quickly shoving his sore arm back into the sleeve and buttoning his shirt back up.

Malcolm readjusts his tie before throwing his suit jacket back on and buttoning the front. He finally leaves the stall and takes a moment to fix himself in the mirror. He fixes his few pieces of hair and shifts his suit some, making sure there aren’t any creases or tiny spots of blood. When there aren’t any, he scrubs his hands in the sink until they’re clean and walks out of the bathroom like nothing happened.

After all, his feelings aren’t important right now. There are two little girls that need him and a street full of criminals that need to be put away.

Walking through the bullpen, he reminds himself that he’s here for a reason. He has a job to do and people are counting on him. He’s already wasting time.

Just as he rounds the corner, he bumps into Gil again. A part of him wishes he hadn’t. “Where did you go? I’ve been looking all over for you.”

Malcolm scratches the back of his head. “My mother was blowing up my phone. She wouldn’t stop until I called her.” A lie that he’s told before, and no one ever questions it.

Gil nods. “Come on, Dani and JT found something.”

* * *

When Gil and Malcolm arrive at the home, they’re surprised to see the damage that’s been done to it. Gil parks his car by the curb and doesn’t waste time shutting the car off and getting out.

No one spoke the entire trip there and neither of them were really keen on speaking anyway. Malcolm didn’t mind the silence; he would rather spend an entire car ride staring out of a window if it meant they didn’t have to talk about what happened at the precinct.

Dani and JT wait by the opened front door. Malcolm trails behind Gil as he slams the car door shut. “Does the entire place look like this?” Gil asks, gesturing to the tornado that is their front porch.

The steps leading up to the front door are cracked and chipped with small craters in them. Broken glass shards from the front door’s window litter the ground, crunching under Dani’s boots as she moves. “Yeah, they broke in and trashed everything. Doesn’t look like they took anything of value.”

JT leads them inside. “Jewelry is still here, TV’s still here, we went through every room and came up with nothing, or at least, what’s left of it.” Malcolm carefully steps over the glass buttoning up his suit jacket.

“So what did you find?” Malcolm glances at a room across the entryway, one filled with toys that he can only assume belong to the girls.

Dani turns around to face them both, walking at an angle towards one of the rooms. “Even though it’s obvious someone tore through the house, your theory about their father being connected checks out. Here.” She walks into a bedroom, barren of debris except for the writing on the wall.

In black letters and symbols across the wall are spray-painted gang signs, claiming the house as territory and letting people know that they were there. Malcolm stares up at it with a frown. “Is this all? I know this is typical territorial practice, so it’s not all that surprising, if I’m being honest.” JT shrugs by the door, quietly eyeing Dani.

Gil watches her too, but not for the same reasons. Her mouth quirks into a smug smile and her eyes narrow as if she has something she isn’t sharing. 

“Check this out,” Dani says.

She pulls open the top drawer of the crooked nightstand in the far corner of the room. Reaching her hand in, she pulls out a black necklace with a black cross pendant lined with pearls and engraved vines. Malcolm moves closer to look over the piece of jewelry, trying to figure out what makes it so special.

Dani’s smug smile grows just a bit. “You know what this is, right?”

“Very fashionable neckwear?” chuckles JT from the door.

She turns her head to give him a look, then turns back to Malcolm’s face suddenly lighting up in recognition. Gil stalks over and stands in the middle as he quietly observes. “What are you seeing Bright?”

Malcolm stands tall again. “Memento Mori. It’s jewelry from the Victorian era that was worn to symbolize the death of a loved one. Families would wear it when they were in mourning – necklaces, bracelets or rings even. It’s Latin, roughly translating to ‘remember you must die’ or ‘be mindful of death’. Judging by the lack of religious relics around the house, I don’t think the father carried this around for keeps.”

Dani gently places the necklace on top of the stand. “What does that mean for our family?” Gil asks, folding his arms.

“It could be a warning. Typically, this piece of history is meant to be worn and not necessarily put on display.” She tilts her head a bit to the side, inspecting the necklace some more. “What if it’s a fake? I’m sure anyone can purchase these if they look hard enough.”

Malcolm shakes his head. “No, that’s definitely an antique.”

“We can try to track down the person who purchased it?” JT asks.

He shakes his head again harder this time. “We don’t have enough time for that. You don’t leave an antique – much less one that is a literal symbol of death – just for show. This is a threat, a promise to the family.”

He takes in the room’s damage, the untouched accessories, all of the indicators of a theme that has nothing to do with a robbery gone wrong. Their suspects needed to get their point across, and this seems like it was the simplest, yet effective way to do it.

“It’s a message,” he mumbles to no one.

Gil takes a couple of steps closer to him, almost hovering over him. “What was that, Bright?”

“This was placed after the girls left home this morning. Since your theory checks out, that means there’s a group of people already looking for him, the man who owes them. Destroying his home is just the start. And–” Malcolm lowers his head. “If these guys already have a body trail behind them, then they’re not stopping until they find him.”

The room slows to a standstill as each detective looks at the other. Malcolm reaches over to pick up a small frame off of the nightstand. It’s an old photo of the father and his girls in front of their home, holding them tight as they smile at the camera. His heart aches at another family caught in the crosshairs of a trade that has nothing to do with them in the first place.

“I believe they came here to take his children and use them as bait to lure him out. That, or,” he places the frame back down on the nightstand, “they already have him, and his daughters are merely pawns to get this group what they want.”

“We need to protect those girls.” JT straightens his back and looks to Gil for confirmation. The team senses the urgency in the room, all staring at their Lieutenant to make a call.

“Dani, you and JT get the necklace and take it back to the lab for prints.” Gil’s already marching out of the room and towards the front door. “Bright and I will–”

His phone buzzes in his pocket and he stops in the middle of the living room to answer it. “Hello?” The team stalls where they are, circling Gil. “Do we have an I.D.?” Dani immediately looks to Bright and JT with shared concern over another body dropping and the hope that it’s not their guy.

A few brief exchanges later, Gil hangs up and stuffs his phone back into this pocket with a scowl. The atmosphere in the room feels a bit heavier than before even though he hasn’t said a word to them. JT raises his eyebrows. “Boss?”

“Change of plans,” Gil says. “Drop it in evidence and meet me in the lab.” Malcolm is right on his tail, speed walking to catch up to him as Gil practically runs out of the house to get to his car while Dani and JT do the same.

“Who is it?” she asks over the noise from the street. It’s as loud as the chatter going on in Gil’s head with hundreds of scenarios that could go wrong even though he’s determined to appear as if he has everything under control.

In the deepest and darkest corners of his mind, Gil can sense his lingering doubt start to rear its ugly head. He pops open his car door, then rests his arm on top and meets the eyes of his team, waiting for a response.

“It’s their father. They’re bringing his body to the lab right now.”

Gil verts his gaze from them to the hood of his car.

“All parts of him.”

* * *

It doesn’t take long for Edrisa to realize just how important their latest victim is to them. Not only was he a key suspect, he was also a single father. Two little girls are sitting in their care right now who don’t know they are permanently without a parent.

She walks the team through the parts that were recovered. “A clear dismemberment, the bruises on his neck – at least, what’s left of it – indicate he was strangled to death. There are several more bruises, a few knife incisions left on the body, and rope burns on his wrists. He was tortured before he was strangled and cut up.”

Malcolm stands closest to Edrisa to get a better look. Even though his death is among many others who got involved with the wrong people, it doesn’t mean it hurts any less. The team feels the loss in their own ways, relating his death and what he left behind to their own personal lives.

They know there are no such things as coincidences, and that everything happens for a reason, but no one can find it in their heart to agree. There is nothing justifiable about senseless killing. Some will say he deserved it, but others will say that this didn’t have to happen in the first place.

Malcolm glances at Edrisa with the same solemn expression as everyone else in the room. “How long has he been dead?”

“About twelve hours, give or take,” Edrisa says.

His head snaps up with wide eyes and he fully turns to Edrisa. “What did you just say?” It startles her because she looks to the rest of the team wondering if she said something she wasn’t supposed to.

“Twelve hours? He’s been dead since _last night_?” With no clarification from anyone, she fumbles on her words and scrambles to correct herself. “Well, technically early this morning between one and three? He was discarded in a dumpster alley and with the decomposition already chipping at his body–”

“Those girls need to be placed in protective custody right now,” he urgently orders to Gil. At his side, his hand starts shaking, and his anxiety becomes apparent to everyone in the room. “What time did those girls walk into the precinct this morning?”

Gil stutters, trying to wrack his brain for an answer through all of the chaos that was this morning. “Uh, they came in about thirty minutes before the Commissioner did? I’d say around eight thirty, eight forty–five maybe? Why?”

It suddenly clicks for Dani, too, because her eyes go wide and her posture shifts as if she’s on alert. Likewise, JT follows with the same stunned expression. “He was already dead when they destroyed his house. They didn’t take anything of value because they couldn’t, it was already gone.”

The gears are turning for Gil too, and he slowly starts to realize what he’s trying to say.

Malcolm swallows hard. “They came to the house looking for his girls.”

“What’s the point? The dude was already dead, there’s no leverage in that,” JT comments next, to Dani. “Exactly, what is there to gain from that? They haven’t done anything.”

A frustrated sigh leaves Malcolm, running his shaky hand through his hair with everyone’s eyes on him.

“The necklace was a promise, remember? They’re not out looking for him; they’re looking for his daughters. This is sacrificial, this isn’t about leverage. They are loose ends in a big operation, witnesses to the crimes of their father and the people he worked with.” He eventually faces Gil with worry. “Those girls have a bounty on their heads.”

Dread settles in their stomachs in the most uncomfortable way possible as his words begin to sink in. Two innocent lives are at stake and their precinct is responsible for keeping them alive until they are safe in another home. It’s enough to kick everything into high gear and get the team moving, even Edrisa. “JT you’re with me, we need to get them somewhere safe now.” Gil says.

He’s already walking through the exit with JT behind him when he quickly stops, turns, and faces Bright. “You and Dani keep an eye on them. Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.”

Dani curtly nods and Bright follows.

“Thanks, Edrisa,” Gil says. Even without her usual excitement, she nods with a determined expression, one that promises to do her best to help them out. Gil exits the lab with JT without looking back.

Malcolm and Dani aren’t too far behind. They wave to Edrisa before exiting the lab and returning to the bullpen’s rush with the rest of the officers. Heading towards the back and down the main hall, Dani and Malcolm reach the two officers guarding the interrogation room. She flashes her badge without a word, glaring at them until they finally move out of their way and stand post at the end of the hallway.

Her badge gets stuffed back onto her front pocket, then she reaches to pull the handle on the door and leaves it open for Malcolm. “Thanks,” he says. He walks into the room like he did only an hour ago, except this time, the situation has changed, and the circumstances are much greater than what they once were.

She closes the door behind them and walks over to stand next to him, looking on as the girls play in the corner on the cold floor with some copy paper and crayons. They share a mutual look of grief.

“Do you really think they’re going to be okay in a safe house?” he quietly asks without looking at her.

She glances over, then back to the girls with a small shrug. “I think they will be. Only the police know where they are, so we should be fine. Though, I won’t be surprised if Gil adds some extra security.”

Malcolm sighs and stares at the door on the other side of the room. Something in his gut doesn’t sit right with him and it’s making him nauseous just standing there. Dani senses it too. “Hey–” She softly nudges his arm. “–they’ll be alright. We’ve covered safe houses before, and we know what to expect from these guys. No one’s getting anywhere near those girls, okay?”

He flashes one of his signature weak smiles despite her reassurance. This case has nothing to do with him, but somehow, it just feels personal. He doesn’t know these girls but he knows what it feels like to be abandoned and alone, left to take care of a sister who depended on him. This isn’t his fight, and he’s not sure if he can stomach another loss.

“Come on.” She unknowingly grips his bad shoulder, lighting a fire throughout his body that numbs his thoughts for a moment. “There’s no easy way to break this. Like ripping off a Band-Aid, right?”

He hides his pain under a small smile and nods. “Right. Like ripping off a Band-Aid.”

Her reassuring smile fades when she lets go of him and walks to the other door. Her hand rests on the handle as she gives herself a moment to breathe. Malcolm breathes with her to give her some comfort, letting her know he’s right there with her. With one last look at each other, Dani gently pries the door open to the other side of the interrogation room.

They’re met with two pairs of worried eyes.

Suddenly, their task feels much bigger now.

Max stops her drawing to judge them while her little sister drops her crayons to huddle closer to her.

“Who are you?” Max demands, standing up.

They look at each other silently, unsure of who should go first. Dani notices how unsure Malcolm so she decides to take the lead. She stays on the side of the table closest to the door. “I’m Detective Powell but you can call me Dani. This is Malcolm Bright, he’s a profiler and a he’s here to help the NYPD.”

“Where’s our dad?” Max asks. “You’re supposed to find him.”

It breaks Dani’s heart knowing that she can’t disclose what they already know. Gil hasn’t given her the word yet, and it’s not her job to be the bearer of bad news. Beside her, Malcolm has his hands stuffed in his pockets so she can’t see his anxious fidgeting that might give himself away.

Thankfully in her case, she’s good at keeping her face neutral.

“We’re still looking for him. We’ve got a team that’s working really hard to make sure we find him. In the meantime–” Dani pulls one of the chairs towards her and sits down. “–we need to make sure you guys are okay and taken care of.”

Max stares at her with suspicion. She looks at Malcolm as if she’s expecting him to say something but he doesn’t as he tries to avoid her glaring eyes so he doesn’t have to speak. He can’t shake the aching feeling that this isn’t going to end well.

By Max’s feet, Sydney has started coloring again, completely uninterested in what’s going on. “I’m bored. When can we go home?” Max asks with a glare.

Malcolm turns to Dani and her to him, both in a momentary panic.

“Well–” he starts slowly, not trusting his voice. “–for right now, we want to move you guys to a better place, one that’s a lot cozier than this room.” Judging by her incredulous look, Malcolm knows that Max isn’t going to blindly follow orders from a stranger.

“Why?” Max asks.

Dani immediately interrupts him. “It’s to keep you guys safe. There are bad people out there and we want to make sure that you and your sister don’t get hurt.”

Her words have Sydney’s attention now. She looks up from her picture and meets Dani’s eyes with a small frown and misty eyes. The tears sit on the rim but they never fall from her face, and Dani mentally curses herself for not being more careful with her choice of words.

The sight of tears has Max bending down to wipe them away with her thumbs and places a small kiss on top of Sydney’s forehead. Max whispers something to her, something too low and quiet for Dani and Malcolm to hear but they assume that’s the point. They’re on the floor for a few moments longer until Sydney’s nodding at whatever Max tells her and resumes her drawing.

“Where are you taking us?” Max asks, getting back up to face them.

Malcolm takes the reigns to give Dani a break. “A safe house. It’s not too far from here but it’s secluded. There will be officers standing by in and out of the house to keep you guys’ safe, and don’t be afraid to ask them questions.”

Max slowly nods and takes her time to think over it.

“And you promise you won’t split us up?” she asks with fear in her voice. Malcolm sends her a reassuring smile, one covered by the pain of knowing that they must’ve been separated once before. “I promise. You and your sister will be living in the safe house together.”

Gil’s voice in the back of his head reminding him not to make promises he can’t keep is deafening. No one knows what’s going to happen after all of this dies down, no one knows what will happen when they get placed in a system where they run the risk of being taken from each other. They are everything to each other, and Malcolm can’t fathom the idea of tearing them apart.

After some thought, Max agrees.

“Okay. Can we go home and grab some of our things?”

Dani quickly glances at Malcolm then back to Max. “Right now, we want to get you guys situated as soon as possible. But, if there are some things you specifically want or need, I can make a list and we’ll bring them to you.”

She bends down to whisper something to her sister again. With her own nod, Sydney is up on her feet with her sister and holds her hand as she stares at Malcolm. “Get your picture,” Max says, and Sydney reaches down to pick up her paper off of the floor without letting go of her hand. “Are we leaving now?”

Dani gets up from the chair and places it back under the table, still keeping her attention on the girls. “Let me talk to our Lieutenant and see how quickly we can get you guys an escort. It shouldn’t take long, so if you two can hold on for just a few more minutes, we can get you out of here in no time.”

Malcolm moves around her so she can be the first to leave the room. Dani looks back with her hand on the handle with a small smile. “We’ll be right back, okay?”

Max nods. “Okay.”

Dani pushes the door open and just as Malcolm is about to step out of the room, a hand tugs on his suit. He turns around to find Sydney staring up at him again, trying to come up with something to say but she keeps falling short. He bends down to her eye level with a comforting smile.

“Yes ma’am?”

She gently hands him her picture. It’s full of colorful scribbles and something in the corner that resembles a heart etched in red. His gasp of surprise seems to lighten the mood, because Sydney starts to grin and her pure joy makes Malcolm’s chest feel lighter than when he walked in ten minutes ago.

“Is this for me?” he asks, voice a little higher. “Yes,” Sydney mumbles, and finally hearing her voice feel like a weight has been lifted. “Thank you, Sydney. It’s really pretty.”

He flashes one last smile before he stands back up with her picture in hand. “We’ll be right back.” Sydney nods and walks back to Max to hold her hand again.

Malcolm finally leaves with Dani, and there’s a rush of adrenaline coursing through him. Those girls are his responsibility, and he’ll move heaven and earth to make sure they feel safe and secure wherever they’re taken.

Malcolm plans to do everything in his power to protect the families of Manhattan from the violence that has ruined and ravaged the city.

Max and Sydney are just the start.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please reread the tags before you continue! Be mindful of potential triggers. Other than that, enjoy!

It’s been three days since Max and Sydney were taken to the safe house. The girls gave Dani a list of things they wanted from their home, and she made good on her word to get them.

They are aware of the possibility of the gang members returning to the home, so Gil ordered that the house should be monitored just in case. The area and surrounding neighborhoods receive daily patrols and late night stakeouts when activity is at its highest.

Malcolm has used the time to try to make his anxiety less obvious. He’s failing, of course, because at the beginning and end of each day, he asks Gil for an update on the girls. He asks how they are doing, what they are up to, if they are okay by themselves and if they want some company.

Gil gives him the same answers every time: the girls are fine, they are coloring or sleeping, and that Malcolm isn’t allowed to step foot near that location.

Outside of their current mission, Malcolm’s been doing better – relative to what he considers to be his normal. As the days go by, he doesn’t talk to Gil that much. Gil is in and out of briefings, toppling over with paperwork, and constantly getting pulled into smaller cases while their Commissioner continues to ask for daily reports on where they stand.

He knows Gil is busy. Rarely do they have time to sit down and take a breather to enjoy each other’s company without being interrupted by officers or a concerned parent looking for their runaway teenager. Malcolm’s mind supplies tiny, simple things that he slowly starts to believe are true, a popular one being that Gil’s ignoring him on purpose.

Malcolm doesn’t know why the thought keeps circling in his head when he knows it’s not true.

On the fourth day, Malcolm finds himself sitting in the conference room alone, switching between the whiteboard and his pile of notes on the table. They haven’t found the people responsible for killing the girls’ father yet, and without any concrete leads, their chances of catching their suspect or even an accomplice are slim to none. It’s starting to drive Malcolm up a wall.

Tossing out another theory that comes up fruitless, Malcolm plops back down in a chair with his cup of coffee dangling in his hand as he stares up at the board. His thoughts are messy all around, trying to keep himself distracted with the case while worrying about the safety of the girls even though he doesn’t need to.

It sends him spiraling down a path of all of the things that could go wrong if he doesn’t find their suspect soon. None of the scenarios are good, and all of them end with more death than he’s comfortable with.

A knock on the door becomes an easy distraction.

To his surprise, it’s JT standing behind the door. “Did Gil send you in here to make sure I didn’t impale myself with this pencil?” Malcolm asks, sipping on his cup of coffee. JT chuckles and stalls in the doorway, leaning on the frame.

“Something like that.” He shrugs with a smile.

Malcolm hums at the thought of Gil sending someone to babysit him. He knows that this indirectly tells him that Gil is worried for him. Gil doesn’t seem to have the time to check on him, so he sends his most trusted to do it for him.

“I don’t need a babysitter, you know,” Malcolm says.

“I know you don’t.” JT moves from the door frame and closes the door behind him, locking it. It makes Malcolm raise his eyebrows in suspicion but he doesn’t question it outwardly. “Even though he sent me in here to make sure you’re still alive, I was already planning on coming in here anyways.”

Malcolm’s eyebrows dip in confusion. He’s not sure what angle JT is aiming for, but Malcolm can tell it’s not something that he’s used to doing.

“What’s going on with you, man?” JT asks, a subtle hint of concern behind his words.

It stalls Malcolm’s train of thought. He can tell the question is coming from a genuine place of concern and not some passive aggressive joke he’s trying to play off. His mouth opens and closes with nothing coming out as he tries to pick his brain for an excuse.

“And don’t bullshit me, either.”

That shuts Malcolm’s mouth indefinitely. He puts his cup down with a sigh, closes his eyes, and leans his head back on the top of his chair. Since JT is keen on calling him out, there’s no other way to avoid the inevitable.

Sitting up in his chair, Malcolm puts his face in his hands with a frustrated sigh. “I can’t narrow down our suspect. There’s not enough evidence to piece together and pin just one guy down. We know it was probably a group effort and their profiles are too vague to sort out.”

JT is silently listening, waiting for him to get whatever it is off his chest.

“And on top of that,” Malcolm adds, “I can’t stop thinking about them. I know that they’re fine and they’ve got guards at every damn window but I just can’t help but think something bad is going to happen, you know?”

With his arms crossed by the door, JT nods. He walks over to sit down across from him, facing the whiteboard to see the scribbles and countless number of papers and pictures plastered on there. “Yeah, I get that,” JT says.

Malcolm sighs. “It’s just frustrating to have that thought on a constant loop even though I know the house is heavily guarded. I just can’t stop thinking about what they did to his body,” he says as he buries his face in his hands again.

“Whose body?” JT asks. “The father’s?” Malcolm nods. JT hums in agreement and looks down at the scattered files sitting in front of Malcolm. “Why don’t you take a break?” JT asks.

Malcolm looks up at him incredulously as if JT forgot what he just told him. “I can’t afford to take a break when there are murderers wandering the streets looking for those girls.”

JT almost shrugs at that, eyeing Malcolm with an expression that he can’t quite place. “I know. At the same time, you can’t sit here all day staring at the board like it’s going to give you the answers you need. I’m not asking you to drop the case. I’m simply suggesting that it’s probably in your best interest if you take a break. You’re going to burnout if you don’t take care of yourself, man.”

If Malcolm didn’t know any better, he’d say that JT almost sounded worried. Instead of poking fun at him, Malcolm takes his words to heart and mulls them over in his head, quietly debating across the table with a frown.

“Come on, fifteen minutes, tops. I’ll even set a timer.”

Malcolm stares at JT with glare, earning a smug smile from the detective. He thinks it over some, the aches in his body suddenly making themselves apparent and the throbbing at the back of his head feeling harsher than it did just a few minutes ago. If memory serves, he hasn’t eaten anything since he woke up that morning, and coffee isn’t cutting it for his water intake.

A break isn’t so bad, right?

JT watches him as Malcolm debates over it some more. When a few seconds turn into minutes of silence, JT stands up from his chair and walks around to stand behind Malcolm, practically towering over him.

“Get up.” JT sighs. “You’re not supposed to be thinking on your break.”

JT’s hands grip Malcolm by his biceps as he attempts to hoist him up from his chair.

Malcolm’s train of thought comes to a halt the second he feels himself being lifted from his chair and the brush of JT’s fingers over the bandages under his suit. He curls back into his chair immediately and nearly hunches over with his hands balled into fists against his chest and his eyes squeezed tight.

Martin is nowhere to be seen, but his presence is always a thorn in Malcolm’s side. Malcolm stays in a curled up position in his chair, twisting his body away from the hands that are trying to take him away. Flashes of green and dirt cloud his vision and a small switchblade slips into his fingers perfectly, the smooth wood of the handle making for an easy grip.

A hand bigger than his clasps around his grip of the blade, and there’s a pressure that sinks onto his back, pushing him towards the lifeless body on the ground.

JT steps over to Malcolm’s side in his line of sight. “Bright,” he calls out, waving his hands in front of his face. “Are you okay?”

Malcolm stays still. JT kneels down to watch him closely, keeping enough distance and letting him sort through whatever he’s seeing. He gives Malcolm space without interrupting so he doesn’t make it worse and patiently waits it out.

Quietly, Malcolm takes a few measured breaths. His hand trembles against his chest as he tries to breathe, reminding himself that he’s at work and not out in the woods where his father has him locked away.

Eventually, when his pulse tampers down, Malcolm slowly opens his eyes. They’re blurry, unseeing and wet from his fading fear. He blinks the water away and shakes as he heaves a heavy sigh of relief, shutting his eyes once more.

“You good?” JT asks.

Malcolm nearly jumps at the sound of his voice. His head snaps to the side where JT is kneeling beside him, face apologetic. He shakes his head, sighing. “I’m fine.”

It’s a lie JT’s already used to, so he doesn’t push it.

JT stands up from the ground with a grunt, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jacket and staring off into the bullpen through the blinds. “I’m not going to force you to talk about things you don’t want to. Just know that I’m sorry for scaring you like that,” JT says. “And, if you ever want to talk about it, feel free to talk my head off. Apparently, Tally believes that I’m a great listener.”

A soft smile crosses Malcolm’s face. “Sure.”

A few seconds of silence stretch between them until JT’s moving back to his spot across the table. He folds up the files in front of Malcolm and holds them at his side, eyeing the profiler.

“My words still stand. Take a break, Bright,” JT says, waving the files in the air. “These will be right here when you get back.”

Malcolm looks at the files then back at JT. “You promise?”

JT huffs out a laugh with a smirk. “Scout’s honor.”

Malcolm drops his head with a short chuckle, shaking his head with a grin. He gets up from his chair and unclips his cuffed sleeves, then grabs his suit jacket off the back of his chair and puts it back on. “Fifteen minutes, right?” Malcolm asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Fifteen minutes. Do a couple of laps around the block if you want to. Maybe get a pastry or whatever you do in your spare time,” JT says as he heads for the door. The door swings open, and Malcolm stares through the entrance with suspicion. JT ushers him through with a wave of his hand, and Malcolm reluctantly follows through.

JT shuts the conference room door behind him. “Don’t let me catch you snooping through reports,” JT warns, walking down the hall with Malcolm by his side.

“Or what?” Malcolm asks with a grin. “You’ll arrest me?”

JT shrugs. “Something like that.”

Malcolm hums and JT chuckles, shaking his head.

Instead of taking an actual resting break, the pair find themselves in Gil’s office going over missing persons reports. Malcolm argues that it technically _is_ a break despite JT’s poor attempts to shoo him out the room. “It’s a new direction of thought,” he says, and he lets Gil and JT do most of the work unless he has some helpful input.

Somehow, the conversation shifts to Gil and JT bickering over JT’s experience as a latchkey kid and Gil reminiscing about always being out of the house because he had to work to help support his family.

Malcolm finds their experiences interesting but he never comments. Instead, he files it away for JT’s changing profile.

It gets his mind off of the girls, and for that he’s grateful.

* * *

Commotion starts around dusk when a handful of officers burst into the precinct with three potential suspects, all somehow linked to the rising drug trade in some way, shape, or form: two men with scars and excessive tattoos and a younger woman with raven black hair and piercings to match.

Gil orders the girl to be taken in for questioning after one of the officers says that she was caught fleeing from a raid. She doesn’t go down without a fight, and she wrestling in the officers’ grip all the way to the interrogation room.

The commotion draws everyone’s attention in the bullpen. Dani is leaning over Malcolm’s desk as they go through evidence photos when the girl starts screaming. With some extra helping hands from the officers standing guard at the door, she’s finally shoved into the room and the precinct resumes its normal volume.

“I wonder what that’s about,” Dani says, straining her neck to watch.

Malcolm shrugs. “I don’t know, but she’s not exactly helping her situation.”

Dani huffs in agreement, folding her arms. “Right?”

Off by the entrance, Gil talks with one of the officers to get a handle on the situation. His hands are on his hips like he’s scolding someone, and his face is scrunched up in mild irritation. Dani watches him from afar while Malcolm’s head is buried in the files.

Her heart aches for him.

Seeing him gradually become worn out over the span of just a few days is hard to watch when she knows just how heavy of a burden he’s carrying. He’s one of the toughest men she knows and one of the most resilient in their work, but his fatigue and hidden fears don’t go unnoticed.

She looks down at Malcolm and back up at Gil.

“Have you talked to Gil recently? You know, since this whole thing started?” she asks.

Malcolm shrugs again without lifting his head. “Haven’t had time to. He’s got a full plate right now, don’t want to disturb him,” Malcolm mutters into the papers.

“I know,” Dani says, sighing. “But it’d be nice for you to check in with him. You know, see how he’s doing, that sort of thing.”

“ _Okay_ , Dani,” Malcolm huffs in annoyance, “I’ll talk to him later. Right now, he’s got his hands full, so I’ll talk to him later.”

“ _Bright!_ ” Gil calls from across the precinct, practically yelling.

Malcolm flinches at the sound of his name and instantly drops his pencil on the desk. A few pairs of eyes stare in his direction as he pops his head out of his cubicle looking confused as ever, going through his mind to figure out if he did something wrong today.

Their eyes meet and Gil simply points towards the interrogation room. “Powell, you too.”

Malcolm absently buttons the front of his suit jacket as his eyes trail Gil leaving the officer and heading towards the guarded hallway. Gil’s clearly irritated about something, Malcolm thinks, and he mentally prepares himself to deal with a frustrated Gil, which, from years of experience, is not fun.

“Or you can talk to him now,” Dani mutters next to him. He gives her an incredulous look and she just shrugs in return. He sighs, then walks out of his cubicle with Dani following him and starts toward the hallway, trying to put his best foot forward.

He’s here to profile. Just like Gil said, he’s here to do his job.

The officers are already standing at the end of the hallway, so Malcolm and Dani wait for the officers to let them through. When they’re able to pass, he turns the knob and pushes the door open to find Gil standing by the glass window with his hands in his pockets, staring at the girl on the other side. He carefully shuts the door behind him.

“She knows something that we don’t. I need to get her to talk,” Gil says with a bite behind his words.

Dani finds her spot by the door. Malcolm shifts over to stand next to Gil and keeps his voice level while trying to gauge how close he can get to him without potentially pissing him off.

“You said that she was caught fleeing a drug raid. Do you really think she knows something that we don’t?” Malcolm asks.

Gil shakes his head with a sigh and deepens his frown. His fingers anxiously tap on his arm, keeping his focus forward. Malcolm watches his face harden and almost frowns himself. He can tell by Gil’s sudden quietness that there’s more to the story than he’s letting on, and the gears start turning in Malcolm’s mind of all of the possibilities it might be.

“What is it?” Dani quietly asks.

“One of the officers who I talked to said that she mentioned the girls. She said their names verbatim,” Gil says as he drops his head to his chest.

For a second, it feels like the air has left the room. Malcolm stops breathing for a second, words caught in the back of his throat. He glances at the woman on the other side of the glass with a new spark, a new way of seeing her than a random suspect pulled into the station for being at the wrong place at the wrong time.

She knows.

“There’s only a few good reasons for how she got a hold of that information, and I’m not liking any of my options.” Gil walks over to the door leading to the other side of the glass and stops short of opening it. “Powell, you’re with me. Bright, I need you to stay out here and work her profile, see if she’s lying and why.”

It’s all the instruction he gets before Gil disappears behind the door and Dani follows without saying a word. She shuts the door behind her and Malcolm watches Gil round the table near the window while Dani stands on the other side with her hands crossed and head tilted to the side. Gil’s hands settle in his pockets.

Despite his irritation, Gil is doing his best to appear civil and unaffected by the chaos the suspect brought into his precinct. His voice is steady and clear, never raising above a two even when she’s cussing up a storm without giving him any useful information.

One of the easiest stress reactions to point out, the woman’s restless fidgeting in her chair gives her away despite her attempts to act tough.

“Vivienne Brooks. Or, should I call you Viv?” Dani asks, sarcasm dripping in her voice.

Vivienne immediately jerks towards Dani to try to startle her, but it fails when Dani doesn’t so much as blink. Their suspect sits back in her chair slouching and folds her arms, glaring at Gil.

Gil simply smiles back at her.

“I’m not talking,” Vivienne spits.

Dani huffs out a laugh and Gil simply smiles. “With all of that screaming you were doing, I’m sure there’s something else you want to say,” he says roughly. “Give me a good reason why I shouldn’t slap a few felony charges on your colorful record.”

Vivienne shrugs with her eyebrows raised and stares right into the glass, doubling down on keeping quiet.

Gil sighs and quietly stalks the table like he usually does when he’s trying to get something out of a suspect, slowly shuffling his feet across the floor loud enough for it to be the only sound in the room. Malcolm carefully watches Gil as he moves, thinking that Gil already knows what he wants to say, but he’s being intimidating by acting like he doesn’t. If anything, he’s making a show of weighing his words.

Gil finally stops pacing and ends up where he started. “You don’t have to,” he says in a low tone. “You have every right not to. Though, if I’m not mistaken, you were caught possessing a substantial amount of illegal narcotics, selling said illegal narcotics to teenagers, and participating in an underground drug ring that’s harboring kids as runners for your new income.”

Vivienne does her best not to budge, but Malcolm can see her begin to sweat under their watchful eyes. Her eyes shift to just about every corner of the room while she tries to keep her mouth shut by biting on her lip. Gil’s not even pushing her that hard, yet she’s already flustered.

Malcolm almost laughs. _She must be terrible at keeping secrets_ , he thinks.

Dani sits back and lets him do the talking. Malcolm thinks she’s probably enjoying this as much as he is.

Gil clears his throat. He takes a hand out of one of his pockets and vaguely gestures to the room, casually talking to Vivienne like it’s a regular conversation. “I don’t know how high you can count but if you’re smart enough, you know that you’re facing a _hefty_ sentence,” Gil chides.

“Not to mention, I’ve got your friends locked up on the same charges. The only reason you’re not on the next bus to the state penitentiary is because you let some delicate information slip, if memory serves.” Gil briefly glances at Dani for assistance.

She catches on because she sits down on the corner of the table closest to Vivienne, standing with one leg down and the other draped over the wood. She’s kind of slouching, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

“How do you know the names of those girls?” Dani asks.

Vivienne squirms in her chair some more, keeping her mouth shut but she’s more nervous than when she was thrown in there.

“You don’t have to answer that. However, there’s only one reason I can think of as to how you got those names. If I remember correctly, there was a break in a few days ago. House was trashed, valuables left untouched, and a striking display of your gang tag spray painted black,” Dani continues, keeping her eyes pinned on their suspect.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Vivienne nervously chokes.

Malcolm notes the obvious lie behind the glass. He can tell that she knows more than she’s letting on, but something important must be hanging over her head. She’s facing at least nine years on drug charges alone – who knows what else they found in the raid. They could probably get her on delinquency of a minor as well if they feel like being petty.

Malcolm squints and brings his hand up to his chin, focusing on her. Why is she so determined to remain silent? Who is she covering for? She hasn’t asked for her lawyer yet, but she’s refusing to talk. Not for her guaranteed liberties but out of fear almost. Malcolm can’t help but lean closer to the glass as if he’s getting closer to the truth.

Malcolm swings the door open to the interrogation out of pure impulse.

“She’s covering for someone,” he says in exasperation, hand still keeping the door open. Gil’s irritation returns for a split second, one that’s ready to tell him to go back into the other room before he undoes all of their progress. Malcolm can see it building on his lips, so he shuts him down before Gil gets the chance to kick him out.

“She’s covering for someone,” he repeats, looking between Dani and Gil. “It’s too obvious.”

Dani stares at him with her own speck of irritation but she keeps her tone professional despite him barging in on their questioning. “We kind of figured that already, Bright,” she says.

“You guys are talking about the kingpin but it’s not them. Same idea, different person.” Malcolm turns to Vivienne, who’s clearly put off by his presence and the fact someone’s been watching this entire time.

“You’re not covering for the guy who’s running this. If you were, you wouldn’t be sweating like you are now. You’re scared of getting in trouble; not with us, but with someone else,” he says, getting closer to the table.

His eyes widen as he digs in deeper, crawling through the shaky front Vivienne’s failing to maintain. “You were there when they trashed that house. It’s obvious,” he says, looking her up and down. “I noticed your breathing quickened when detective Powell mentioned the house.”

Vivienne buckles down in her chair like she’s holding herself back from speaking.

“Tell us why you marked that family for death,” Malcolm demands, holding his gaze.

“I didn’t do that! I wasn’t a part of that plan, I just–” Vivienne immediately shuts her mouth and sinks back into her chair. Gil’s almost leaning into her, and Dani keeps her rigid stance while Malcolm plucks at her conscience.

“You’re lying,” he states. “Max and Sydney – how do you know their names? Who told you? How did they get a hold of their names?” Malcolm can hear her anxiously tap her foot on the ground as she stares daggers into the wall. She wants to say something, but the fear of being caught talking to the police has her panicking and sweating bullets.

“I’m not talking,” Vivienne growls.

“We can cut you a deal,” Gil emphasizes. “Tell us who gave you their names and we can reduce your sentence.”

Vivienne snaps her head towards Gil with her eyes wide, chest heaving. Her face is hard to read other than her initial shock of being offered a deal in a seemingly impossible situation.

Then, out of nowhere, she starts chuckling.

It quickly escalates to a full-on breathless laugh, drawing confused looks from everyone else in the room as her shoulders shake and her eyes crinkle in amusement.

Malcolm straightens up from the table and fixes his suit, then glances between Dani and Gil who sport the same expression, wondering what part of Gil’s offer was funny.

“Do you really think–” Vivienne starts, coughing when she chokes on her spit. “–you’re going to sell me on some weak ass plea deal? I’m already serving time, what’s knocking off a few years gonna do for me? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you guys are shit detectives. Asking me where I got the names when you should be looking at yourselves. Can’t trust nobody these days,” she grumbles, leaning further back in her chair, still amused.

Malcolm’s frown returns in full force as he tries to decipher her words but he keeps getting sidetracked by her choice of words – what is she alluding to?

Gil’s façade crumbles the more Vivienne talks, and Dani’s patience thins by the second. His hands rest on the sides of the table with a vice grip around the edges, staring Vivienne down with rising irritation that’s threatening to spill over.

“Cut the bullshit, Vivienne. We need answers. If you’re just going to sit here and disrespect my detective, then there’s nothing to talk about, so we can wrap this up,” Gil says, voice tight.

“I don’t give a shit about those girls. I’m afraid you’ve caught the wrong one, Lieutenant,” Vivienne playfully chides. “If those girls are marked for death, then I don’t know what else to tell you, chief. They’re done for. I don’t make the rules,” Vivienne says, shrugging.

Malcolm watches her behavior, feeling an acute rush of adrenaline shiver through him the closer he gets to finding an answer. She’s confident now, smug as hell, and boasts about a secret they still don’t know. He can’t make the connection to the home invasion – she doesn’t seem like the destructive type, less frontline, more stationary than her two friends from earlier.

Vivienne’s tells are as clear as day, but her words don’t match with her exterior.

“I’ve got no power,” she drawls, staring Gil dead in the eyes with a smirk. “And judging by the looks of it, your authority doesn’t mean shit if you can’t keep your own pigs in line.”

The table shakes as Gil pushes off of it, startling both Malcolm and their suspect. He hastily runs a hand through his beard before stuffing his hands in his pockets and glares down at Vivienne’s smiling face.

“Talk. Last time I’m going to say it,” Gil warns, voice tight and unwavering.

It’s off-putting for Malcolm even though Gil’s tone isn’t directed towards him. Their suspect isn’t fazed, and Dani doesn’t budge at the inflection she’s already used to. Malcolm directs his attention towards the profile, but his mind drifts off to the safety of the girl’s and Vivienne’s comment about his lack of power.

The comment isn’t new to hear, but Malcolm knows it’s festering from a place of insecurity and pent up frustration from his hellish week. It gets under Gil’s skin almost too easily, and Vivienne sees that as an opportunity.

She sits up in her chair with her arms still folded. Her eyes challenge Gil’s as she leans in closer towards him, arrogance surging her forward like she’s got nothing left to lose. Then, ever so slightly, her smile curves into a grin, and Gil’s face steels.

“Trust is like glass, Lieutenant,” she says, “and your precinct’s got cracks up to the fucking ceiling. Worry about your own before you question mine.”

She leans back in her chair with a satisfied smile.

“Get her out of here,” Gil orders, brushing past Dani and Malcolm, aggravated. “You know the charges. Book her then come find me.” He doesn’t waste time exiting the room, leaving Malcolm and Dani to deal with the mess Vivienne has made. Dani resigns to reading Vivienne her rights while Malcolm stays put and helplessly watches.

Dani grips Vivienne by her upper arm to hoist her up from the chair and shoves her forward. “Hands behind your back.” Vivienne complies with a smirk, grinning with satisfaction as Dani pulls out a pair of cuffs to put on her wrist. By the door, Malcolm continues to silently profile her.

He wracks his brain to make the connection between Vivienne, the girls, and who she’s willing to lose her freedom for. His eyes track her jerky movements and any other distinctive features on her body that he may have initially missed, but so far, she’s as regular as they come. Broke and in need of quick cash.

It’s never that simple. Malcolm refuses to leave it at that. Working with next to no information, his stress is morphing into a migraine he won’t be able to get rid of. His fingers aggressively rub at his temples, frustrated that he’s been running in circles all day and getting further away from the answers that he needs.

“Bright, get the door,” Dani barks, motioning her head forward.

When he nods, Malcolm winces and regrets it immediately, then pulls on the handle to open the door for Dani. She almost shoves Vivienne forward as they walk through the room and down the hallway until Dani splits off from Malcolm to put Vivienne in holding.

Malcolm stands idle by the cubicles. The noise in the precinct has quieted down, but the anxious tension remains heavy and suffocating. He glances around to try and spot Gil in the sea of blue. His search is short-lived when he catches the sight of Gil’s back hunched over an officer’s desk, talking.

He stands right where he is by the conference room. A vivid memory crosses his mind from the other day when Malcolm ran into his office without knocking, rambling about the case and mistakenly walking in on a conversation between Gil and their Commissioner. It was a few seconds too late when he realized his mistake before he apologized profusely and left the room immediately.

Malcolm tried to hide underneath some paperwork, but as soon as Gil’s office was empty, he called Malcolm back in to give him a _firm_ warning not to do it again. The way Gil spoke to him wasn’t like other times when Gil got fed up with him; Malcolm could hear anger simmering in his voice.

He understood that he was out of line for barging in unannounced, but the way Gil spoke to him left a fresh scar that his mind continues to pick at when he isn’t working.

He plants his feet by the door and quietly waits while his thoughts run in circles, whispering small reminders of how useless and incompetent he’s been this entire time.

Quieting the voices in his head is pointless, so Malcolm lets them roam free.

About five minutes later, Gil stops hunching over the desk and stands up to lean his elbow on top of the cubicle. A few nods later, he begins to walk away from the officer towards his office. Malcolm uproots himself from his spot and strides to catch up with him before he disappears under a stack of files.

“Gil!” Malcolm calls out behind him.

Gil halts and turns around with a scowl on his face that makes Malcolm immediately second guess speaking entirely. Gil raises his eyebrows expectantly, and Malcolm completely blanks on what he meant to say.

“What is it, Bright?” Gil impatiently asks. “I don’t have all day.”

It hits Malcolm like another blow to the stomach as he tries to focus his thoughts on this single question rather than picking apart every syllable leaving Gil’s mouth. Thankfully, a sliver of a memory passes by and he latches onto it.

“Sorry,” Malcolm stutters, regaining his composure. “I just had a quick question about Vivienne. Do you think she’s telling the truth? That she wasn’t there the day the house was trashed?”

Gil heaves a heavy sigh, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose and Malcolm thinks he asked the wrong question. Eventually, Gil gives a light shrug. “I don’t know. At the very least, she knew it was going to happen and what they planned to do – whoever ‘they’ are. She didn’t really give us much to go on, so we’ll just have to keep on digging.”

Gil decides that’s the end of it and turns to leave.

“Wait!” Malcolm lunges forward and grabs his arm on impulse. Gil’s scowl deepens into a frown and Malcolm quickly lets go, putting his hands up in mock surrender. “Sorry,” he says. He scolds himself for continuously making Gil’s life harder than it has to be.

“Sorry,” Malcolm repeats, putting his hands back down. “I just – I don’t know, Gil. The way that she talked about trust suggests that there are officers that are or have been disloyal to you. Why would she say something that’s completely irrelevant to the case?”

Gil briefly ponders the idea. “There’s always a handful of cops who butt heads with authority, so it’s pretty commonplace. If there is in fact someone in the ranks following their own set of rules, then I’ll put a guy on it, figure out who it might be.”

Malcolm nods, mind elsewhere. He’s not satisfied with the answer, so he tries to create his own in spite of Gil wanting to leave this alone. “I can’t just go around accusing people on the basis of a criminal who’s actively participating in one of the largest rings we’ve seen in decades,” Gil says as he rubs the back of his neck with his hand.

Gil watches Malcolm’s face turn into a frown as he thinks, and he realizes he isn’t listening to a single word he’s said. “Don’t even think about it, Bright,” Gil warns. “Work the case you were given. Don’t let me catch you questioning my officers.”

His tone doesn’t leave room for discussion.

Malcolm bites the side of his cheek and reluctantly nods.

Gil stands there until Malcolm’s head falls with resignation, then he walks towards his office and shuts the door behind him. The blinds zip closed and Malcolm is left standing in the hallway in the ruins of pissing Gil off _again._

Malcolm marvels at how fast something so small can unravel into this where both he and Gil are left without the other, stewing in unspoken words. His nails dig into his palm with a gripping squeeze until his muscles relax and the guilt takes over.

He heads towards his desk in a daze, held down by his spiraling thoughts. They’re harsh and unforgiving, telling him things he’s already heard, calling him names like the kids did at school, and pulling on his heart to make him doubt every single decision he’s ever made.

He stops short of his desk and leans on it with only his hand keeping him upright.

A voice mimicking his father grabs him by his throat with a vice grip, squeezing out every small breath he struggles to take. His free hand pulls at the one around his neck, clawing at his skin as he chokes and silently fights while no one notices and no one can see that he’s struggling.

His nails dig into Martin’s skin, but he just squeezes tighter, taking every ounce of Malcolm’s life with his bare hands like he hasn’t already. Malcolm grits his teeth the harder he pulls. Black spots color his vision and his balance begins to waver.

“This is pitiful, Malcolm, really,” Martin taunts behind his ear.

The hand disappears in the wind and Malcolm chokes on air, pulling in deep hauls into his lungs again. His ragged breathing catches the attention of the officer sitting nearby, and without saying anything, he gives Malcolm a look mixed with mild concern and disgust. Malcolm sees the look in the corner of his eye and immediately excuses himself.

The journey to the bathroom takes all the energy he has left. He stumbles in, completely ignoring the stares from two guys hanging by the sinks. They leave when their company has been interrupted, and Malcolm busts open the door to a stall and slams it shut.

He leans up against it and _breathes._

The only noise in the bathroom is the sound of his heavy breathing. He stays right where he is until he can see straight again and his father is nowhere to be found. His body shivers with anxiety, shuddering on every exhale. Just as he’s able to catch his breath, his stomach anxiously rolls and bile creeps up and burns the back of his throat.

He quickly puts his hand up to his mouth and closes his eyes, breathing slower out of his nostrils and swallowing back whatever is trying to come back up.

He stays absolutely still until it passes. His hand falls from his mouth and his body sags against the door as his body goes limp with exhaustion. Sweat beads drip down the sides of his face but he doesn’t wipe them away, nor does he bother with the few tears threatening to spill over.

They never do, but he kicks himself for being so pathetic.

Malcolm huffs in annoyance and pulls out his phone to check the time. There are several unread messages from his mother demanding that he come home, and a few from Ainsley asking him where he is. Once he checks the time, he stuffs his phone back into his pocket with no plans to respond to either one of them.

He allows himself a few extra minutes of complete solitude. He’s thankful that no one else has entered the bathroom while he tries to pull himself together, but he guesses that he’s been gone long enough for his team to start asking where he went.

Would they even care if he was gone?

Malcolm ponders the idea, but it quickly dies with every other intrusive thought making its way forward.

Eventually, he walks out of the stall and takes his time fixing his suit and hair in the mirror. His hands grip the sides of the sink as he stares at his reflection, trying to convince himself of something he doesn’t believe.

Nothing changes the longer he stands there. He feels just as shaken, empty, and alone as he did when he stumbled in, and looking at the person in front of him only adds to the heaviness that’s weighing him down.

Malcolm shoves his overactive feelings into a locked trunk, buttons up the front of his suit jacket, and walks out of the bathroom void of his suffocating emotions.

* * *

It’s a late dinner for the team.

They’ve spent a good portion of their waking hours dedicated to violence and death, taking people from the streets and tracking down families who’ve lost their loved ones to the drug infestation of Manhattan.

It’s around ten at night when they allow themselves a short break to eat after they’ve been running on fumes since the crack of dawn. It’s only thirty minutes, but during this small break, they’re reminded of how grateful they are to sit down and have each other at the end of the work day, especially in times like these.

Malcolm usually sits out of their take-out meals and substitutes it with something bland and easy on the stomach. A sleeve of crackers and an apple will suffice for today.

He’s usually a spectator when they talk while they eat, quietly observing from the corner of Gil’s sofa. JT and Gil are having a heated debate over a baseball player’s statistics, something Malcolm knows absolutely nothing about. Dani occasionally chimes in with her own bandwidth of knowledge, which tends to be controversial because suddenly Gil and JT are teaming up against her to debate otherwise.

The banter makes him happy. It brings him a sense of peace he rarely gets to feel, and it just makes him so _happy_. He chuckles at how animated Gil gets when he’s talking about the Yankees, and how JT and Dani make the most hilarious facial expressions when they disagree on something.

He’s content, even if it means sitting idle without speaking.

“Yo, Bright?” JT says.

Malcolm perks his head up at the mention of his name. “Hm?”

“When was the last time you went to a baseball game?” JT asks, leaning against the window. Malcolm throws his head back in thought, trying to recall his most recent memory of watching _any_ sports game. He draws a blank and shrugs. “I don’t remember. At least, I haven’t seen one recently. Why?”

“Tally and I have suite tickets and a few extra empty seats thanks to some of her friends from work bailing last minute. You should come. Gil and Dani have agreed to it, you should join us. You know, ‘bond outside of work’ as they say.” JT is doing his best to be smug about it, but Malcolm can easily see how much he wants him to go.

“Come on, we don’t even have to stay all nine innings. We just have to show up, make appearances, grab what we can from the mini bar and leave,” Dani adds, “just to get outside of the house and do something fun for once.”

Gil eyes him from his desk, and Malcolm looks between the three pairs of eyes that are waiting for him to say yes. He mulls it over in his head. It sounds inviting but he hates having to socialize. On the bright side, he’ll be surrounded by people he knows and trusts, not thrown in the water with affluent sharks who stare and hiss as he walks by.

He can’t think of any good excuses not to go.

Besides, what’s wrong with one little outing? A night free from the horrors of his mind doesn’t seem so bad the more he thinks about it – it’s the getting there that’s the hard part.

“Come on, I’ll drive you. No need to try and haul a taxi on a busy night,” Gil says. Malcolm chuckles softly, ducking his head out of habit. “Just like old times, huh?”

Gil cracks a smile so wide that his eyes crinkle, and a warm, fuzzy feeling washes over Malcolm. “Just like old times,” Malcolm agrees, smiling.

He remembers the first Yankees game Gil brought him to after begging Jackie all day to let him go. Gil made sure he had his Saturday off so he could take him, clearing his whole day to dedicate it to him, making sure he was full and happy. It became their little thing every other weekend to watch the game. Whether they were inside the house or watching it live in the stadium, Gil always did his best to reserve his weekends for Malcolm.

Oh, how things could change over the years.

Malcolm hums in thought. “What time does the game start?”

JT’s eyes light up ever so slightly and everyone in the room does a double-take. “First pitch is thrown at seven thirty. Seats are for this Saturday.”

Malcolm hums again, drifting off to weigh every scenario that could possibly go wrong if he decides to go. He sits in silence for what feels like forever with his face pinched up and his hand resting under his chin.

Finally, he looks up at JT with certainty.

“Okay. I’m in,” he says.

There’s a collective exhale around the room. Malcolm slightly frowns at that but he doesn’t comment on it. He assumes that they were really hoping that he’d say yes.

Why they would want him in their company is beyond his understanding – he has a bad habit of getting in the way, after all. He’s still getting used to the idea of people wanting him around. It’s one thing if they’re working a case, but it’s a whole other thing to want his input on something that doesn’t involve a profile.

It’s new and uncomfortable. He wonders if it’ll last. Scars have their own funny way of exposing themselves after keeping them hidden for so long. What would they think of him if they saw them?

“Great! We’ll see you this weekend,” Dani says with a hopeful smile.

“Yeah, you could probably learn a little something about sports,” JT says with a chuckle. “Oh, and you can meet all of Tally’s weird coworkers, too.” Malcolm smiles at that, imagining Tally being fed up with the people she works with and coming home to tell JT about the latest breakroom gossip.

A knock at the door pulls their focus.

“Come in,” Gil calls, trying to clean up his desk a little bit.

A uni walks in with a nervous look, one that typically means one thing and one thing only. JT straightens up by the door, folding his arms, and Dani plants both of her feet on the ground to pay attention. Malcolm turns his head and studies the rookie cop, tracking all of his acute stress reactions throughout his whole body.

Before he knows it, Malcolm feels a sickening pit in his stomach.

“What is it?” Gil’s rising to his feet now. Malcolm’s running a million scenarios in his head all at once, trying to figure out what is so important for the cop to bother Gil while he’s away from the unit. It can’t be good, whatever it is.

“Sir,” the uni starts. “We’ve been compromised.”

* * *

It’s all downhill from there.

The team sprints out the door the minute those words leave his mouth, each in their respective squad cars. When the radio blares with badge numbers and codes, Gil radios that he’s en route, and Malcolm’s leg shakes in his seat as he stares out the window.

Homicide. Malcolm knows the code for it.

It doesn’t take much for his mind to spiral, thinking of the worst scenario possible and trying to convince himself that everything is going to be fine when they get there. He watches Gil keep his foot on the gas, but it feels like he could go faster, run right through traffic and pick up speed at a stop sign.

JT’s right behind them with Dani, and Malcolm eyes them through the rearview mirror.

Malcolm’s heart won’t stop hammering against his chest. He practically squirms in his seat with his eyes dead set on the road in front of him, ready to hop out of the car as soon as they cross into the location.

Gil and Malcolm don’t speak a word to each other, but they don’t need to talk about the elephant in the room – they can feel anxiety seep into their bones, dreading the fact of their cover being blown, and what that could mean for the two children inhabiting it.

If there’s any higher power, Malcolm would be on his knees begging them for mercy.

As they draw closer, sirens blare in the distance and red lights color the night sky and paint the trees red. Malcolm’s vision tunnels, his pulse skips a few beats, and his breathing becomes shallow, his hand on the latch and ready to unbuckle his seatbelt. They pull into a hub of ambulance and several squad cars with countless officers and techs going under the yellow tape that surrounds the house.

There are too many body bags for Malcolm to count. He spots the few officers going in and out of the house and zeroes in on where he needs to go. He has a plan, and no one is going to stop him from getting to those girls.

Gil barely stops the car when Malcolm unclips the seatbelt, forces the passenger door open, and runs towards the house without closing it.

“No – _Bright!_ ” Gil yells.

Gil immediately shuts the car off, yanks the keys from the ignition, and takes off after him, running through the crowds of people to get to him. The house isn’t far from their car and Malcolm is booking it, not slowing down for a second, bumping into a few officers on his way up.

He’s right on Malcolm’s heel. Gil stumbles up the front staircase to attempt to go around him so he can cut him off before he reaches the door, but the kid’s too agile for him to keep up with. Malcolm dodges Gil’s attempts to grab him on the way up. “Bright!”

Malcolm needs to see it. He needs to see it for his own two eyes because it’s his _job._ He needs to know what happened, who did it, why, and figure out how anyone could be that cruel and vile to even–

The girls are his responsibility.

It’s not true. It can’t be. It just can’t be.

“Bright, don’t go in there!” Gil frantically yells.

It’s too late.

Malcolm’s foot is already in the doorway before a hand lands on his chest to stop him from walking any further, but the stains on the carpet stop him dead in his tracks.

Standing in the doorway of the safe house, Malcolm catches a glimpse of the grizzly crime scene in front of him for a full eight seconds. In eight seconds, his mind takes in too much information at once, already trying to process the crime scene as it is. In those long eight seconds that he stands there, his heart thuds in his chest at the horror that befell those two girls.

Everything happens in slow motion. He disconnects from himself, thoughts slowing as his body goes numb standing in the doorway of his greatest failure.

The noise around him slowly fades to an echo.

People are moving around him, living, breathing, talking among themselves as he watches them, observing something that isn’t really there. From a point of view that isn’t there.

He’s not safe. This place isn’t safe.

The girls are–

The room becomes silent except for the dull ringing that grates against his ears, burning away his sense of sound. His heart skips a beat too many. It pulses out of rhythm, getting faster, pounding in his ears as his lungs depress, forgetting what it felt like to breathe before this. It’s the kind of dread that slows his breathing down and he struggles to stand there as if he got the wind knocked out of him.

Malcolm stands there, eyes wide with his mouth slightly parted in disbelief.

A pink tattered shirt stained red.

Red lips painted over with crimson.

Splatters of crimson on the walls.

Black bags brought onto the scene with delicate gloved hands prying them open to be filled.

Someone is trying to move him.

His stomach is too weak for that. Bile at the back of his throat burns where it sits, mouth pooling with saliva but not enough to make his stomach lurch and ruin the crime scene.

Still, his body resigns to being moved. He’s guided back down the stairs, away from the carnage of the room that was supposed to keep those girls safe. His legs feel weak under him, ready to buckle if it weren’t for a pair of strong hands holding him up by his shoulders.

He can’t hear the sirens anymore. Reds and blues become a blurry wash of nothing.

His breath catches in his throat and suddenly he’s no longer breathing.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to Ace for being an incredible beta and being so patient with me throughout this whole journey. And special thanks to my friend Linc who inspired me to write this just for them and always encourages me to keep going when I don't want to. This is for you! To everyone, please reread the tags before you continue. Other than that, enjoy!

Sunshine couldn’t have been any louder.

The world comes back to Malcolm in slow, muted sounds. It’s not some night terror that he can’t run from, but he’s coming to terms with being alive and he’s not sure if that is any better. Hearing her chirp away in her cage makes him squirm, curling up where he lays hiding away from this life.

He cracks his eyes open, bleary and unfocused, blinking profusely until they start to clear. He slowly uncurls himself, wincing at the soreness in his lower back that stretches as he turns over. He stares up at the ceiling of his loft as the grey clouds from above cast a dull shadow over his bed and throughout his pad.

Something is hitting his window. He listens for that lull of quietness that suddenly picks up as it taps against his windows and a flash of lightning startles Sunshine. Thunder follows, and the rain starts to pour heavily over Manhattan. The white noise is peaceful compared to her, and he tunes into the sound of rain, letting it guide him to the here and now.

The bed is softer than he remembers. He rolls back on his right side to get up, groaning at the throbbing at the base of his skull that thuds against his ears. Looking down he can see that he’s still in his clothes. He frowns at that and tries to remember how he got home last night.

He draws blanks. Someone must’ve brought him home.

Palming the sheets with his hands to push himself off the bed, Malcolm finally sits up and lets his head fall to his chest. Cotton dry mouth with tossed hair, his mind drifts as the pain makes it too hard to think and he struggles to get a grip on the restraints’ latches. At least whoever took him home knew to chain him up in case of emergencies.

His fingers shake – from what, he doesn’t know – but he’s able to free himself just as thunder rolls again. His phone starts to vibrate next to him. Like clockwork, it’s his mother deciding to blow up his phone, so he just lets it ring. He decides this is the perfect time to shower.

He walks into the bathroom and immediately turns the knob all the way to the left. Steam collects as he undresses, carefully unwrapping his bandages and stripping down before stepping in. He adjusts the temperature until it’s just right and soaks in it, letting his mind drift again.

His aching muscles tense under the heat but gradually loosen up to where he feels like he’s floating on air. He lets the water fall down his face and through his hair, pushing away a few strands that stick to his face while he ignores the stinging throb in his shoulder.

When the water starts to lose its heat, he turns the knob off and steps out. He grabs a towel off the rack, dries himself off, and wraps it around his waist. The search for clothes ends with several missed calls and no shirt, just some soft, grey sweatpants.

He sits on the edge of his bed.

How did he get home last night?

He wracks his brain to find some semblance of an answer or a clue, but nothing’s there, not even a broken fragment to pull from.

Ignoring his laundry list of notifications, Malcolm sifts through his messages to see if there’s anything he can latch onto. Nothing from JT, nothing from either Dani or Gil, not even a single ping from Edrisa. He goes through his pictures and there’s nothing. Nothing in his notes or Google searches.

Malcolm tosses his phone on the bed with a groan, dropping his head in his hands. His fingers pull at his damp hair, twisting and plucking at his scalp. Nothing comes to the forefront. However, his mind, being as creative as it is, decides to throw him a bone.

“This is pitiful, Malcolm, really,” his father’s voice says behind him.

Malcolm curses his overactive imagination.

“I don’t need you right now,” he sighs, sitting up. Stepping into his periphery stands his father, staring down at him with that same stupid grin on his face.

“Of course you do,” his father chirps, milling about his room. “Isn’t that why I’m here?”

Malcolm gets up to check on Sunshine in an attempt to block him out. Martin smiles even wider. Malcolm walks through the kitchen to feed Sunshine and change her water as his father looks on, not moving from his spot by the bed.

“You don’t have to be so stubborn, Malcolm. I can help you,” Martin playfully chides.

Nothing. Malcolm dumps her bowl in the sink.

“This could be fun! Just like old times when you needed my help with your studies.”

Still, nothing. Malcolm fills her bowl with food, closing her cage.

“It’s a shame you won’t let me help you. What would Max think if she saw how you’re behaving right now?” Martin asks, holding back a smile.

His head snaps up at Martin with a glare, trying to mask his growing fear. “How do you know about her?” Martin raises his eyebrows before he bursts out in laughter, doubling over. He wheezes a little bit, coughing as he tries to catch his breath. “Is your memory _really_ that bad? You should really see someone about that.”

Malcolm storms across the loft to get to him. “Leave her out of this.”

Martin chuckles, face softening to something akin to pity. “My boy,” he coos, reaching over to touch him but stopping just short of his chest. Martin’s eyes land on the tears littering Malcolm’s shoulder, looking over them with fondness. “My, my, my, what do we have here?”

Just as his fingers brush over Malcolm’s skin, Malcolm instantly jerks back. “Don’t touch me,” he snarls, raising his arm to protect himself.

“You’ve started again, haven’t you?” It’s less of a question and more of a statement. His voice is low, soft as if he’s actually concerned.

“Save it,” Malcolm spits. “I know that’s not the real reason why you’re here.”

Martin turns away and vaguely gestures with his hand, thinking of something to say. Malcolm eyes him from across the room as he walks in circles in thought. Suddenly, a small smile graces his lips again, and Malcolm knows nothing good will come from it. Malcolm’s pulse picks up, and Martin stops by his window, looking out to the city with his hands behind his back.

“Memory is a tricky thing. Our minds are wired to take in what we see, filter it, or file it away for later when we have that euphoric moment of nostalgia. It’s not something that we can force by sheer willpower; we don’t command memories to the forefront because we want them to appear.”

Martin turns towards him, staring with an expression of solemnness. An expression that seems way too genuine for a fear response. “The reason why you can’t remember last night is the same reason why your mind is full of fragments that don’t make sense.”

Malcolm scoffs. “And what reason would that be?”

From across the room, Martin narrows his eyes, a pinch of irritation under the surface. Malcolm isn’t getting it.

“For someone who’s well-versed in the human psyche, you’re sporting ignorance rather than intellect,” Martin says with a chilling tone of disappointment.

Martin steps away from the window, striding through the space of Malcolm’s room. It’s unnerving for Malcolm to see him so calm and confident, so sure of himself. He holds the keys to the kingdom, and Malcolm’s afraid that whatever took place last night was something to be forgotten.

Martin stops a few feet short of Malcolm.

“I’ll give you a hint,” he starts, taking note of every little change in Malcolm. A small smile creeps up when he starts to feel giddy, chest swelling with childish pleasure.

Malcolm shifts from being defensive. He’s seen that look before, and his heart starts to pulse out of rhythm, his hand quietly trembling at his side.

“Survival is different for everyone, Malcolm.”

Malcolm questions Martin with a look. “How is that relevant?”

Martin shakes his head with a frustrated sigh. “Come on, boy, _think_. Why do you think you’ve been able to live free of those memories for so long?”

Malcolm balls his shaking hand into a fist with his teeth clenched. “You drugged me, remember? You knew what you were doing.”

Martin snarls. “For once, son, this isn’t about me,” he bites back.

“I don’t have time for this.” Malcolm storms off towards his mini bar, not really looking through his selection to see what he wants.

Martin rolls his eyes. “I guess there’s no easy way to break it to you,” he mumbles, looking away.

For a moment, Malcolm hesitates. He doesn’t give Martin the satisfaction of seeing his face even though his father knows that he’s listening.

He’s practically on the edge of his seat anticipating what’s coming, curious as to why his father is so keen on helping him.

“Your mind is protecting you from something,” Martin says.

Malcolm’s glass hits the counter with a loud clink. “From what?”

He looks up at Martin with pleading eyes, quietly reaching out for help. As guarded as he keeps himself, he knows he needs to give up something for his father to budge and fall for his helpless act. It works, because the second Martin’s eyes meet his, Martin’s feet walk towards him.

They meet in the middle of his loft. Standing only inches apart, both believing that they have each other wrapped around their finger, thunder rumbles through the floors of the loft as it shakes but they remain steady.

The thunder fades and Malcolm notices a change. A switch in his father’s demeanor – he stares down at his son with nothing behind his eyes. He’s cold and his presence is commanding. It slowly dawns on Malcolm that they’re not exactly on equal footing. He can feel his control slipping at the hands of his subconscious and it scares him into believing the worst.

Cold and detached, Martin bores holes into Malcolm. “From yourself.”

Before Malcolm has a chance to react, Martin brings his hand up to his face and rests it on his cheek, cupping his face around his palm with a sickening look of sympathy. Malcolm tries to back away but he physically can’t.

The storm outside brings a downpour that crashes against his window, mimicking the sound of his heart rattling against his ribcage. It bursts with so much fear that he forgets to breathe under the weight of his father’s hand.

“My boy...” Martin coos as he shakes his head. “What did you do?”

Malcolm’s heart thuds in his chest. He scrambles to find an answer, to find some piece of last night but he _can’t_ , and his father has him right where he wants him like it’s some twisted joke that he doesn’t know the punchline to, and it’s making him _sick_ just standing there.

“Let me go,” he demands, but it’s more of a weak plea for help.

Martin’s thumb brushes his cheek with a carefulness, so disgustingly tender that it’s nauseating. Malcolm feels himself slipping into his head, needing to retreat as his hand shakes his entire body. Staring up at his father with feigned fight in his eyes, he grits his teeth, spitting out, “Get off me,” but it’s no use.

This can’t be happening. God, this can’t be happening.

“You failed to protect the girl in the box–”

“Please, _stop_ –”

“–and in essence, you failed to protect those girls.”

Words die on Malcolm’s tongue. His eyes widen as he starts to realize Martin isn’t kidding. The joke is over and the punchline has been delivered. If only it were funny.

“No,” Malcolm whispers.

“No, that’s–” he breathes, searching through his mind again but there’s nothing. “They’re safe with us. The police know where the safe house is, no one else.”

Martin tips his head with a slight frown. “Are you sure about that?”

Lightning blinds his vision for a moment. Reality sinks like an anchor. His body goes completely still, limp in his father’s hands as he stares into oblivion. Martin can’t hide his predatory grin anymore – it spreads across his face like a cancer, slowly draining the life out of Malcolm.

“And you wonder why I don’t trust the police,” Martin snickers, satisfied with his handy work.

With one harrowing, wheezing laugh that has him almost bending backwards, Martin sinks back into Malcolm’s subconscious, his voice echoing throughout the loft and ringing in Malcolm’s ears.

Malcolm’s phone buzzes a couple of times from its spot on his nightstand.

He feels like he’s floating, not entirely in control of where he’s going but taking a backseat instead. He lifts his phone off of his nightstand, and the screen lights up with three new text messages, one from JT and two from Dani.

_Hey, Gil said no need to come in today_

_Morning. / Can we talk?_

Then it comes. It’s not coherent or chronological by any means; spurts of images he’s never seen flooding his psyche and drowning him with it.

He can see the big screen. It plays that horrible scene over and over, a moment in time when he disappears from the here and now.

He grunts in pain, a sharp heat spreading from the base to the forefront, getting hotter as the movie plays out his newest nightmare. He can feel it crushing him, making his stomach turn as the image continues to assault him with a misery he never knew existed.

The home is blurry. He’s not in the city but he’s not out in the woods either. Sirens wail in the back of his mind and vehicles crowd groups of people in navy blue, but it’s all black under the night sky. Blues fade into reds and reds into whites, blending until he sees pink.

A pink tattered shirt stained red.

Red lips painted over with crimson.

Splatters of crimson on the walls.

Malcolm sprints to the bathroom and slams his knees on the tile in front of the toilet, throwing up whatever he ate last night. It’s clearly not much. He violently dry heaves with nothing behind it as his body jerks forward, trying to get rid of something that isn’t there. Tears prickle at the corners of his eyes until they fall down his warm cheeks and down his neck.

His vice grip on the toilet weakens. He slumps against his shower door wheezing, defenseless against what he’s seeing behind his eyes. It makes his stomach lurch again, but he’s not strong enough to make it to the toilet this time.

The girls. The girls are–

Sweat drips down his sides, breathing harshly to suck in air but his lungs seize as quickly as they expand.

Max and Sydney are–

Malcolm starts to cry. He wraps his arms around himself as he doubles over with a wail, face scrunched up in pain as thunder roars behind him. He feels like screaming, but he can’t find the power to be enraged. There’s no one here to listen, to hold him, to comfort him like he needs to be.

It’s all his fault.

Those girls are dead because of him.

Twenty-three people are dead because of him.

The girl in the box is–

His mouth slacks open with breathless cries as he continues to sob. He chokes on his spit, coughing and sputtering until he’s painfully gasping for air.

Death follows him everywhere, and he’s tired of letting it fall on his conscience.

Head throbbing from the tears, Malcolm sits upright against the shower door with an eerie calmness. He stares into nothing as his heart starts to slow, gradually thudding against the madness that’s smothering him. It blares like a warning signal, but despite the noise, he sits perfectly still.

Nausea rolls through him. Fighting against his body, Malcolm crawls over to the cabinets under his sink and opens one of the small cabinet doors. The creaks are quiet compared to the rain that pelts against the building.

The rain is calming. Here, alone in the loft in the ruins of his father, Malcolm finds his body moving on its own while he drifts in and out of his headspace. He finds himself sitting on his knees with his feet under him like before. A tray of clean razors are in his hand but there’s only three this time.

All three shine in his eyes, a beautiful metallic color that draws him to pick one up and put the others down on the floor next to him.

The rain starts to come down a little harder. Just as the thunder crashes behind him, Malcolm lets his emotions guide the blade up and down his body. It starts in one spot and shows up again in another. He follows the sound of the pelting water to keep him safe, grounded but he can’t seem to catch a grip on reality.

Lightning flashes.

Thunder rolls.

The rain doesn’t stop, and neither does he.

Lightning flashes.

Thunder rolls.

The rain brings life to nature, feeding the soil of a cemetery.

The rain doesn’t stop, and neither does he.

His phone starts to blare next to him. It sounds like an Amber alert but he doesn’t think to check. The wail of an ambulance lights up Manhattan, sounding the signal to save a life that must’ve been caught in this torrential downpour. He begins to feel lightheaded. It’s enough discomfort to bring him forward and focus his attention on the here and now.

He sees red.

Where did it come from? Is it from the girls?

His eyes zero in with focus. Not the girl’s but his. The puddles are his, not theirs.

The ambulance blares again. If only it could save him, too.

He’s impossibly dizzy now. Forcing his head to move, Malcolm surveys the damage. Immediately, his eyes widen. The sight sobers him up quickly, bringing him to a frenzy and panicking. His hands shake and tremble so hard that he drops the blade on the floor, struggling to breathe as fear tears through him, regret following soon after.

_What do I do, what did I do, God what did I do–_

Malcolm hastily reaches for his phone, his fingers too wet and too shaky to type correctly. He quickly wipes his hand on his sweatpants and presses down on a name, nearly hyperventilating into the phone as it rings.

“Hello?”

“Gil!” The relief that he feels immediately sends him over the edge as he bursts into tears.

Even after everything that’s happened over the course of this case, the sound of Gil’s voice still gives him hope.

“Gil – Gil! I’m, oh my god, I’m so sorry, I – I did something bad–” he hiccups between words, choking on spit and unable to speak clearly.

“Whoa, kid, slow down,” Gil says, straightening up in his chair. Sitting in his office, Dani and JT can’t help but listen in to whatever has Gil startled. “What happened? Where are you right now?”

“Home, I – I’m home but I didn’t mean to Gil, _please_ believe me,” Malcolm begs as he continues to sob into the phone, and shakes like a leaf. “I’m so sorry,” he whines. “I didn’t mean to do it, I swear–”

Gil stands up out of his chair and starts to move to get his coat. Dani grips his arm to stop him, mouthing ‘What’s wrong?’ with JT close behind her.

He puts his hand up to stop her, leaning into the phone to try and hear better against the rain outside. “I’m on my way, okay? What happened, kid? Do I need to call an ambulance?” He listens to Malcolm’s heavy breathing on the other line, but he won’t speak, and it’s making Gil extremely anxious. The coat slips on with ease, then he reaches over to grab his keys and wallet from his desk.

“I’m scared,” Malcolm quietly chokes out like a child. The excessive crying is making him dizzy again and his stomach turns in knots. His anxiety begins to spike, but he’s too numb, too sore to move from where he sits and make it worse.

“Do I need to call an ambulance?” Gil asks again, keeping his voice steady.

Malcolm shakes his head like he could see it. “No, no I just – I’m _scared_ , Gil. Please, I need you.”

Gil freezes.

Begging isn’t normal. Malcolm doesn’t beg for anything, much less _needing_ someone.

This isn’t good.

“Don’t worry, kid, I’m on my way. Can you do me a favor and stay on the line? Can you do that for me?” Gil quickly signals for Dani and JT to come with him with his hand and waits until they’re out of his office to close the door. He mouths something to one of the officers before he steps out of the precinct and into the rain.

Still crying on the other end, Malcolm nods. Soaked, Gil slides into his car and slams the door behind him. “Kid? Can you do that for me?”

“Yeah, I can.” Malcolm sniffles. “I can do that.”

“Good,” Gil puts the car in drive. “I’m on my way. Don’t move until I get there.” He glances up at Dani sitting in the backseat, holding herself in fear of the unknown, and JT in the passenger seat with an expression he can’t read. The rain won’t let up on the city, but that’s not stopping him from breaking speed limits to get to his son.

Malcolm does what he’s told and doesn’t move. The throbbing doesn’t stop and neither does the blood flow but he stays put in front of the sink. Box breathing isn’t much help. He wheezes into the phone practically the entire car ride, occasionally stopping when he can’t take it anymore only to sob again.

It feels like the drive lasts forever. His loft is right down the road where Gil can see it and he sighs in relief, the white of his knuckles fading from his hands as he loosens his grip on the wheel. “I’m right around the corner, kid. Where are you right now?”

“Bathroom.”

Gil makes it to the end of the street and doesn’t waste time trying to perfectly park by the curb. “Bathroom? Okay, stay right there, I’m coming up.”

Almost immediately, Gil shuts the car off and yanks his keys out of the ignition. Dani and JT hop out on the other side, shielding themselves from the rain while they wait for Gil by the door. He fumbles through his keys to find the spare that Malcolm gave him, picking it out and shoving it into the keyhole and turning.

When the door opens up, he lets JT and Dani in first. They hurry up the stairs with Gil locking the front behind him and running with them while keeping his phone pressed to his ear. He tugs on the front door with his spare to get in, waiting to hear a click before pushing the door open.

“Malcolm!” Gil yells, voice ringing throughout the space.

Gil shrugs off his coat by the door and runs through the loft as thunder rolls above him. Dani and JT run in behind him. His nerves are reaching a peak at the thought of something awful, making him jump to irrational conclusions to figure out what could make Malcolm that upset. Unfortunately for him, he’s not sure if he wants to know the answer to that.

Gil cracks the door open to the bathroom and the first thing he sees is red.

Air leaves his lungs. He’s too stunned to move from the doorway, too stunned to get close. “Malcolm?”

At the call of his name, Malcolm slowly lifts his head in the direction of Gil’s voice.

Relief floods through him when he sees Gil standing there, but standing right behind him are two people he doesn’t want to be weak in front of. He’s too vulnerable now, too raw and broken to be shown to just anyone and it hurts that Gil would do such a thing.

After all of the tears he’s cried, Malcolm suddenly starts again, sitting there on the floor covered in his own mess and utterly helpless.

Gil’s heart feels impossibly heavy. It moves something paternal and protective in him and his body acts on pure instinct and the need to console him. “Hey,” he coos, carefully kneeling down in front of him. There isn’t a spot on the floor that isn’t covered in blood so he doesn’t really care for his clothes.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you,” Gil soothes as he sits down right next to Malcolm and ever so gently pulls him into a hug as best as he can without putting pressure onto the soaked scars.

When Malcolm’s shoulder collides with Gil’s soft sweater, a sob wretches its way through his throat and he instantly starts wailing in Gil’s embrace.

“I’m sorry,” he cries, gripping onto Gil’s sweater and burying his face into his chest. “I’m so sorry!”

Gil doesn’t think about the damage he’s done. He thinks about holding his child and keeping him close and not ever wanting to let him go. Gil musters all of the strength he has to lift Malcolm off the floor and into his lap, cradling his weightless body against his own as he tirelessly sobs into his chest.

Dani and JT watch from the doorway. They don’t make any move to help or comfort just yet, knowing that this is personal for them so they shouldn’t get in the way. Malcolm lying in a bloody heap against Gil, they watch their once charismatic profiler shatter on the floor into a million jagged pieces that are too broken to be fixed.

It’s intimate in the worst way possible, and they feel like they’re intruding on something that has nothing to do with them.

JT and Dani glance at each other. Without saying a word, they’ve already made up their minds to give them some space. They walk away from the bathroom to wait in the kitchen.

Malcolm’s grip on Gil’s sweater tightens. “It hurts,” he sniffles, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“I know,” Gil says as he cradles him closer. The feeling of him wrapped in his arms brings back bittersweet memories of Malcolm’s nights spent at the Arroyo’s.

It became a regular occurrence months after the arrest. The night terrors had just started, and Jessica initially refused to have her son chained up to his bed like a prisoner.

Just like his father.

It wasn’t until Malcolm spent a night at their home when, in the throes of a terrifying night terror, he threw himself off the bed trying to escape something and landed on his wrist. Nothing broke, but his cry of pain was heard throughout the house, instantly waking Gil and Jackie from their deep sleep to see what was wrong.

Gil held Malcolm as he cried and cried about his wrist and how his arm broke his fall. Sending him home in a brace had Jessica fuming and Malcolm embarrassed by his accident.

Now, sitting together on the cold tile of Malcolm’s bathroom, Gil wishes it was only a sprain.

“I’m sorry,” Malcolm whispers. His cries are tampering down to sniffles and stray tears, but Gil can tell he’s far from being okay.

“You don’t need to apologize, Malcolm. I know,” Gil says.

Malcolm shakes his head with a deepening frown. “This is my fault,” he murmurs into the crook of Gil’s neck. “It’s all my fault.” He starts to feel like Gil is too close for comfort, that he doesn’t deserve to be held when all he seems to do is make a mess everywhere he goes. “Please.” Malcolm starts to pull away from Gil. “Let me go.”

“Kid, stop.” Gil only grips him tighter but not tight enough to hurt him. Gil surveys the mess coating the tile and he distantly thinks of calling an ambulance. Malcolm said that he didn’t need one, but with the state that Malcolm’s in, a hospital visit would mean more than just simple aftercare. “Why don’t we get you cleaned up, hm?”

Malcolm only cries harder.

“I know, kid,” Gil mumbles, gently running a hand through his hair. “I know.”

Gil waits for the tears to subside. Malcolm quiets down and slowly starts to retreat into his headspace, and Gil doesn’t force Malcolm to stay with him. Instead, Gil rocks him a bit, mumbling soft reassurances into his hair. His body is limp in Gil’s arms, and Gil tries his best not to let the haunting silence get to him.

He grabs a small towel that’s in his reach and lays it on top of Malcolm’s arm to stop some of the bleeding. Jackie was always better at comforting Malcolm when he was having a hard time, so Gil does his part to ensure he feels safe when he comes back.

Minutes pass. At some point, Malcolm comes back to awareness.

He stirs and groans against Gil’s chest, trying to shift into a comfortable position in the small space. He moves his head out from under Gil’s chin to look at him with a frown, then turns to look at the room around him.

“We’re in your bathroom,” Gil supplies. “You’re holding onto my sweater. That’s the sound of the rain hitting your windows and I probably smell like my cologne or a wet dog.”

Malcolm sinks back into Gil’s chest with a groan. “Bile.”

Gil frowns. His arms readjust to hold Malcolm up so he can sit better. “What was that?”

“I taste bile,” Malcolm murmurs.

“Do you feel like you’re going to throw up?” Gil asks, voice laced with concern.

Malcolm numbly shakes his head.

“Alright, then.” Gil sighs with his head laying on top of Malcolm’s. Instead of rocking, he continues to rub Malcolm’s hand while eyeing the mess still on his arm.

Gil starts to wonder if it’s the right time to ask him when they’re close like this, yet he can’t help but feel like it’ll be received as a setup. Malcolm will tell him if something’s wrong – or, at least he thought he would. It saddens him to know that he was struggling and didn’t feel comfortable enough to tell him he was hurting.

Gil probably could’ve seen the signs if he stopped to take a second to look. He was occupied with everything happening out there that he didn’t take the time to look out for his own. He knew how overwhelming this case was for him and how personal it became over the course of just a few days.

What if Malcolm didn’t call him today?

Gil knows he can’t afford to think like that. The thought alone scares him to his core, and he starts to tear up at the idea of having to bury the other half of his heart.

“Hey,” Gil calls to him, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Let’s get you cleaned up, okay?” _Focusing on the here and now is what’s really important_ , he thinks. What could’ve or would’ve been isn’t relevant anymore when he’s lucky that Malcolm is still here.

Still alive.

“Dani, JT!” Gil’s voice shakes just a little bit, but he clears his throat in effort to not let his emotions slip. The sound of boots scurrying across the hardwood is a relief to hear. Just as quickly as they were called, Dani and JT appear in the doorway with their own concerned expressions, looking around to see if there’s any more damage than before.

When they find nothing, the tension leaves their bodies and their shoulders visibly slacken.

“We need to clean him up,” Gil says. “Dani, can you get him some fresh clothes? And JT, if you can get a glass of water and some Saran wrap from his pantry, that would be great, too.”

“Yeah,” she nods, already walking towards Malcolm’s bed.

“Got it,” JT says as he walks away.

Looking down at Malcolm, Gil tries to see if he’s still present. Thankfully, he’s still awake and cognizant of what’s going on around him. Meanwhile, they wait in comfortable silence as the rest of their team scurries about the loft to get some supplies. They’re back in the bathroom in no time, and Dani sets his fresh pair of clothes on top of the sink next to JT’s glass of water and box of saran wrap.

Gil shifts his body to where he’s sitting up straighter, and Malcolm is carefully turned around so he could face the front. Malcolm groans in protest but he doesn’t make the effort to stop him.

“Someone grab the first aid kit out from under the sink, please,” Gil instructs as he tosses the dirty towel aside. Since he’s the closest, JT reaches over, squats down by the sink, and pulls out the first aid kit while watching his step as he walks over the splotches of blood still on the floor.

Eventually, Malcolm settles with his back against Gil’s chest and his head lulling to the side on Gil’s shoulder. He cradle’s his limp arm to his own chest while JT moves around Dani to sit down in front of them. Thankfully, Malcolm’s shirtless, so JT has easy access to his entire body if he needs to.

The tension returns to the room. Everyone holds their breath for the inevitable, and they anticipate doing the necessary evil if they all want to move past this. Malcolm’s anxiety kicks up a notch when he notices their hesitation to get close. He can tell they don’t want to hurt him but it’s already too late for that now.

“Like ripping off a Band-Aid, right?” he asks with a nervous smile. Dani purses her lips and returns the smile but there’s no joy behind hers.

He eyes JT nervously as he unpacks the kit and starts looking for the right supplies. JT pulls out ointment, gauze, and a roll of bandages and sets them aside before getting up from the floor to wash his hands. He quickly dries them off and pulls another small hand towel, then soaks it in warm water, wrings it out, and brings it back to them.

JT carefully grabs Malcolm’s wrist and lays it in his palm. Malcolm looks up between him and his scars with something akin to shame, and his cheeks flush with embarrassment. “I’m sorry...” he says quietly.

His arm is completely numb with pain. It pulses and throbs like a bad headache under his skin, serving as a painful reminder of what he’s done not only to himself, but to the girls as well.

“Don’t sweat it, man. Just keep your arm still, okay?” JT says. Malcolm nods profusely like a child and braces himself in Gil’s lap, slightly turning his head away from his arm and chewing on his bottom lip. He palms the hot towel in his other hand and raises it over his arm, slightly hesitating before pressing down. “You ready?”

Malcolm nods again, anxiously waiting for the pain to start. Gil’s hand holds Malcolm’s and Dani latches on as well, briefly drawing Malcolm’s attention away from JT. She squeezes his hand with a firm nod, then looks over to Gil, who’s keeping Malcolm’s body steady with his arms by his side.

Ever so slowly, JT presses down with the towel and gradually applies pressure to stop the flow. Malcolm’s breath hitches at the onslaught, and he bites down hard on his lip and squeezes Gil’s hand. As rough as his hands are, JT is surprisingly very careful and gentle as he works to clean off some of the dried blood and slow the fresher flows.

Malcolm’s chest rises faster and falls harder as he watches him through squinted eyes. What feels like forever may have been only a minute because his arm is clean in no time, and JT puts the towel down on the floor next to him.

JT looks up to Malcolm with his brows dipping in concern.

“I’m fine,” Malcolm says between breaths. “Just anxious.”

With that, JT takes it as his cue to continue. Malcolm knows from experience that a hot towel was just the tip of the iceberg compared to what’s coming next.

“I need to get the small cuts. Covering the bigger ones with this will damage the tissue,” JT says as he sits back on his heels for a second. Malcolm can see the hesitation in his eyes while he sits back, stalling, delaying what he needs to do. Refusing the hospital makes things tricky, and the last thing JT wants to do is make the situation even worse.

Malcolm can tell that Gil wants to have a say in this but he’s just ready to get it over with. “Just do it JT, I can handle it. I’ve done this before.”

To JT’s surprise, Gil simply nods in defeat. “Go ahead, JT.”

“Fine,” JT grunts. “Dani, can you hand me that towel?”

She snatches a dark towel from a pile nearby and dampens it with warm water from the sink and passes it to JT. Then, with one last look of confirmation from Malcolm, JT lays his arm down, coats a corner of the towel in ointment and presses down on the small gashes.

Painful is an understatement.

The ointment instantly seeps into the smaller fresh scars with a scalding fire behind it, burning every piece of fleshed skin in its path. Malcolm cries out and immediately pulls away from the burn and bites down on his bottom lip as his body lights up in searing agony. Dani grips his hand impossibly tighter and uses her free hand to gently trace her fingers along his other arm while Gil does the same with Malcolm’s shoulders.

Malcolm hisses through his teeth when JT gently pulls his arm back so he can tend to his aching scars, applying slight pressure with another damp towel. He shuts his eyes as he tries to concentrate on something else, anything that could take his mind off of the pain but it’s so excruciating that he can’t seem to focus on anything else.

JT frowns while he works to clean up. They’re deep, so there’s no other way around it. He tries to tune Malcolm out as much as he can but his constant movement isn’t making his life any easier as he cleans him up with quick precision.

Malcolm shudders at a white hot flash of pain that runs through his spine as JT presses down on a particularly raw spot. JT mumbles an apology before going right back into the fresh wound, only stopping to occasionally pull his arm back when he flinches.

When JT finishes, he covers the area with thick layers of gauze and starts to wrap his arm in elastic bandages. Malcolm slouches against Gil, losing some of the tension in his body as the biting pain slows into a throbbing numbness that’s no longer visible.

Everyone collectively sighs.

“We good?” Gil asks, peering over Malcolm’s shoulder. He can feel Malcolm tremble under his fingers and he’s getting antsy just sitting there with nothing but Malcolm’s harsh cries of pain echoing in his ear on repeat. The sound is unsettling on his stomach, making him nauseous despite his decades of experience working in law enforcement.

“Almost,” JT answers.

“Here.” Dani grabs the glass of water sitting on the countertop of the sink and brings it down to their level. “Drink this.”

Gil and Dani let go of his hand so he can take the glass from her. Malcolm stares at the glass with hooded eyes like it’s too far away from him and too much work to get to. Sweat glistens over his forehead, soaking some strands of hair till they’re plastered on his face, and he’s pants as if he just ran a marathon.

She cups his chin with her finger and raises his head to look at her, her eyes silently pleading with him to take the water. Her expression isn’t one of pity. Through his cloudy haze of fading pain, Malcolm catches a glimpse of empathy in her, something that’s rare for her to express out loud.

Dani’s not judging him. Here, sitting on the floor of his bathroom wrapped in bandages, she chooses to _understand_ him and is willing to sit in his mess with him to let him know he isn’t alone in this.

It’s another little thing that makes him feel guilty for being such a burden. The least he can do is take the glass.

Malcolm chugs down the water without hesitation. Thirst is an afterthought and hunger is there, but he refuses to acknowledge the two. “Thank you,” Malcolm pants, handing her back the glass.

“You’re welcome.” Her smile is warm and comforting, a feeling he’s been deprived of for so long. His mouth curls into a small smile but it immediately disappears under the guilt.

Finishing the last clips on his bandages, JT sits back on the floor. Malcolm knows he can’t stay huddled with Gil forever, so he carefully forces himself out of his lap and sits in front of him, landing in between Dani and JT. With his legs free, Gil moves over to grab the Saran wrap and tap Malcolm on the shoulder.

“Turn around, kid. Let me see,” he asks as he opens the box.

Malcolm turns to face him like he asked and puts his arm in his lap without looking up at him. Silence stretches between the team as they watch Gil wrap his arm in saran wrap with such care and attentiveness that it vaguely reminds Dani and JT of their own fathers. Maybe not as caring and attentive as they remember but the sentiment is the same.

When Gil finishes, he places the box by his side and gives a tug to the wrap to make sure it’s stable enough to stay put. Malcolm’s arm rests in Gil’s palm as he absently strokes the plastic with his thumb, chin to his chest as his eyes search for Malcolm’s.

“How about a quick shower? Can you do that for me?” Gil quietly asks. Wordlessly, Malcolm nods.

Gil’s hand cups the back of Malcolm’s neck and his fingers rub small, soothing circles on the warm skin. “We don’t have to talk about it right now. I just want to focus on getting you back on your feet, okay?”

Gil moves a piece of hair out of Malcolm’s face so he can see his blues avoiding him. It’s almost a painful reminder of when Malcolm became mute all of those years ago and how he dealt with the weight of the world by internalizing it. There’s no other way for Gil to be there for him; he’ll wait for him as long as he needs to.

“You don’t have to do this alone, Bright.”

Gil’s words seem to trigger something in Malcolm. Even though he’s not looking at him, Gil can see his eyes begin to shimmer under the low light of the bathroom followed by his shallow breathing getting louder by the second.

Eyes closed so Gil can’t see his tears, Malcolm just nods because he knows his voice will betray him. His trembling lips are pursed in a tight line as if he’s going to start again, holding back a cry so wrought and broken that it’ll give him away.

Gil watches him struggle. Malcolm nods again like Gil didn’t see it the first time, and a familiar knot tightens in Gil’s throat that he has to swallow back as his own eyes start to water. He grabs Malcolm’s face with the softest touch and slightly pulls his head down so he can plant a small kiss into his hair.

“Okay,” Gil chokes out, voice thick with sadness.

A few stray tears fall down Malcolm’s cheeks, but Gil’s there to catch them with his thumb, gingerly wiping them away. Gil sniffles and swallows the lump again. He knows they can’t move forward if he stays on the floor with him, so Gil forces himself to move.

He lets go of Malcolm’s face and places his hands on his knees, ready to stand up. “Come on, kid,” he calls, pushing himself off the ground. When Gil finally stands, Dani and JT are with him, standing and almost crowding around Malcolm waiting for him to follow.

Malcolm’s legs feel weak under him like they’ve suddenly gone numb and stopped working. He won’t ask for help, but remaining on the floor prompts the team to help him anyway.

A pair of strong arms grabs under his arms and while Gil crouches down to his level to grab onto his hands while Dani watches from the door. With a short count of three, Malcolm is hauled off the ground like he weighs nothing, and he plants his feet on the tile, wobbling at the sudden movement.

JT doesn’t let go until he’s no longer swaying, only backing away when Gil grabs Malcolm’s arm to hold him up by his side. The spray of the shower draws Malcolm from the edges of his mind, only to find Dani running his water and picking up the bloody towels off the floor. JT is right behind her, cleaning up everything he used and packs up the first aid kit to be put back under the sink.

Gil can worry about the blood stains later.

Time slows as Malcolm weaves in and out of his head. He knows they’re talking but it’s all muffled and incoherent, and he doesn’t have the energy to try and decipher it. When clarity warps his vision, Dani and JT are gone but Gil is still there, watching him like he always does.

Gil picks up the clear tray of razors off the ground and stuffs them in his pocket, knowing that Malcolm could easily go to the store and get a new set. He finds the used one in a drying puddle and wraps the soaked blade in some toilet paper. At the very least, he hopes to curb the initial itch to start again.

“A quick shower to wash off,” Gil says. “Your clothes are over there on the sink. We’ll be right outside your door, so if you need anything, call us.”

With no movement or signal to acknowledge him, Gil draws his own conclusions.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Gil reassures him.

Other times, this would bring him some comfort but in the back of his mind, Malcolm bitterly wishes to be alone again. That way, no one has to deal with him.

Gil notes the fresh scars on his shoulder with a sad smile. It tells him today isn’t the first it’s happened, and Gil vaguely winders if there are any more scars on his body to match.

Instead of reaching out to rub his shoulders like he usually does, Gil places his hand on Malcolm’s cheek and smooths his thumb over Malcolm’s skin for a moment so their minds can have a few seconds of peace and allow their emotions tamper out.

Eventually, Gil reluctantly leaves him.

The bathroom door shuts behind Malcolm, taking him back to where he was before he picked up the phone. Numb, hurting, and alone. The water continues to run against the sounds of the rain above him, and h’s drowning in a sea of his own sorrow. It feels like he’s left with more scars than he started with, and a pang of regret cements itself inside of him.

He should’ve never called.

* * *

The team stands around the kitchen in complete silence. No one dares to speak or even breathe out of turn; no sounds or sudden movements, just the hiss of the rain against the building.

Steam rises from the screeching kettle on the stove.

Dani turns the stove off as the water boils in its heat and grabs a black mug from the cabinets. While she’s occupied with making some tea, JT leans against the marble countertop with his arms folded, facing the living room and Gil stands next to Sunshine’s cage to take her out. Sunshine’s too skittish from the rumbling of the weather to fly away when Gil opens her door, so he leaves it open in case she changes her mind.

They stand in the kitchen for what feels like hours. Gil times it, patiently watching the clock on the stove turn the seconds into minutes, counting down the time until he needs to go check on him. Ten minutes is the checkpoint, and he’s already passed seven.

The mug in Dani’s hand fills with warm chamomile, piping hot steam filling the air with the aroma scattering around her body and into her hair. The smell is calming like the box promises, and she finds herself stalling in her haze of thoughts to take in the quietness of the loft and the scent radiating out of the mug. Here, she notices how exhausted she is.

They’ve been at this case for days now, and with their horrible luck, it feels like progress hasn’t been made, and real change seems like a pipe dream at this point. On top of that, they’ve got their profiler on the mend.

Something uncomfortable shifts within her. Seeing Malcolm on that floor, bloody and desperate and unaware of what he’d done is a shock to her system. No one ever plans for that or expects to find their friend in a situation like that, much less someone they understand on a personal level.

Their bond is built on a deeper strength, something secret and unhidden, and for him to spill like he did sends a negative pang up her spine, leaving it to sit where it doesn’t belong.

JT moves around the kitchen. He’s getting restless from standing still, and ten minutes begins to feel like torture to wait out. To curb some of the few minutes left in their wait, JT shuffles over to Dani’s side of the counter and leans up against it with his body facing forward but standing at her side.

He crosses his arms over his stomach again and sighs. “You good?” JT asks in the quiet of the room, even though he already knows the answer.

She stares down into the mug that’s warming her hands, thinking. “Are you?” Dani deflects, not looking up.

JT adjusts his body as he sighs again, head falling to his chest. “No, not in the slightest.”

Dani nods her head and keeps quiet.

JT glances over to see if he can make out her face but it’s hidden by her curls. He shifts his attention to Gil, silently checking in on him, and finds him right where he was just a few minutes ago – standing by the oven and closely watching the clock. One minute left before Gil bursts into the bathroom with his hand on his phone ready to call an ambulance if Malcolm decided to get creative.

To everyone’s surprise, the sound of the shower turning off has them whipping their heads towards the bathroom door. JT stands up straighter, and Gil’s eyes never leave the door, anxiously waiting for Malcolm to walk out in one piece.

Though the ten minutes are up, a few extra spill in. They collectively hold their breath as they wait, silently watching the shadows move under the door, each person coming to their own conclusions of what’s happening behind that door.

Thankfully, they don’t have to wait much longer.

After minutes of complete silence, the click of the doorknob sounds through the loft and from out behind the door emerges Malcolm. His hair is damp from the haphazard job of drying it off. A few drops of water drip onto his clean shirt, sweat clings to his forehead, and his hand grips fistfuls of his shirt.

Malcolm’s feet patter through the room, moving at the speed of molasses with no intention of rushing over. His head slightly hangs over his chest with an absence of expression on his face.

The way Gil does a quick once over to search for anything out of place is obvious and it doesn’t go unnoticed. Judging by the way Malcolm’s hair falls in his face and his plastic-free arm, Gil would say he made it out okay.

Malcolm keeps his head down.

It feels like a walk of shame. All of their eyes are on him, watching his every move like a hawk and waiting for something in him to break so they can be there when the chips fall and clean up his mess. They’re all staring – he doesn’t have to look up to see that. He feels their heat from across the loft, making him uncomfortable in his own home and in his own skin.

Distantly, Malcolm wishes it would end.

Here, in the center of the loft, Malcolm wishes for lightning to strike him, stop his heart right where he stands, and put an end to his pathetic excuse of a life. Oh, how he yearns for it now.

If his death isn’t by his own hands, then he can spare the shame and won’t have to worry about his father laughing over his grave. At least it’s less embarrassing than having to deal with his actions. His subconscious is good at reminding him.

Tears well up at the rim of his eyes but he tries to blink them away, rubbing his eye with his bandaged arm to play it off as dust and not his own weakness.

Stepping into the kitchen is a journey in itself. Malcolm stops short of the barstools under the marble island with his head still down and his hair hanging over his face.

His mind supplies that he needs to put on an act, to quickly fix himself up and stop behaving like a nervous child. No grown man goes around moping and crying like the world is out to get him.

Another part of him thinks it’s pointless. They’ve seen him at his worst, so what’s the point of keeping up appearances?

It’s a never-ending broken cycle that plays on repeat until he decides to have some courage and put a bullet between his eyes before his father finds a way to ruin whatever’s left of his damaged psyche.

“Here.” Dani appears next to him but quietly keeps her distance. She’s assessing him, too, and searching for those eggshells to make sure she doesn’t step on something vulnerable. Malcolm turns his head to the woman standing at his side and inspects the smell of Chamomile radiating off of her. A warm mug sits in her hands, and she offers it to him with a small, hopeful smile.

Malcolm pushes the strands of his hair out of his face and takes the hot mug into his hands. “Thanks,” he mutters with something that resembles a smile. He returns to staring down at the mug.

She doesn’t expect much, so for him to take the mug counts as a small victory.

The room falls silent again as no one offers to speak up.

The weight of their stares is unnerving and getting under his skin. He feels like they’re waiting for the glass to shatter at his feet or for him to act out of turn and have another breakdown, all equally on their toes. Frustration builds in his chest and his lungs tighten in anger, feeling like he’s suffocating under their invasive gazes.

“Please stop staring,” Malcolm pleads, loud enough for them to hear.

Suddenly there’s movement in the room as if he’s given them permission to breathe. Dani steps away from him but she doesn’t stray too far. JT readjusts his posture against the counter, and Malcolm can see Gil making his way over to him with a solemn expression.

“Hey, kid,” Gil starts, his voice a bit too high for Malcolm’s liking. “Can we talk for a minute?”

A pit opens up in his stomach and an overwhelming dread fills it in. Anxiety seeps in where he least expects it, and his pulse quickens under his skin. He doesn’t have to look up from his lukewarm mug to know that Gil doesn’t plan on letting him off easy. Gil’s determined to talk about it now, and the _last_ thing Malcolm wants to do is exactly that.

Even if he had a choice, it wouldn’t matter. Gil won’t stop until he finds an answer he’s satisfied with.

Gil’s hand rests on the small of Malcolm’s back. “Let’s go sit on the couch.”

Feeling the pressure of Gil’s hand on his back, Malcolm turns around from his spot by the counter and walks through the loft towards his weapon collection and coffee table. To his horror, Dani and JT are right behind him with Gil. He gingerly sits down in the corner of his leather sofa while Gil sits down a few feet away from him. Dani and JT park themselves across from them, seemingly comfortable with standing.

The thought of dying is ever more appealing.

Before Malcolm has the chance to deflect and lie about being perfectly fine, Gil turns towards him and rests his arm over the top of the couch. Like a child, Malcolm closes himself off in the corner with his mug sitting idle in his lap and stares down at a spot on the floor, waiting for the crushing weight of being a burden to collapse on him.

“Malcolm,” Gil starts, voice low. “What’s going on?”

Malcolm pauses.

It’s a simple question with a complicated, long answer that begins with his father being arrested for twenty three murders. Instead of answering truthfully, Malcolm puts the tea on the coffee table and just stays quiet.

After a stretch of nothing, Gil realizes that Malcolm isn’t going to respond. He knows what he’s doing isn’t exactly comforting or inviting, but sitting idle while his kid is suffering isn’t something he plans to let slip through his fingers.

He sighs and adjusts his spot on the couch.

“Why did you cut yourself?” he asks.

It’s as honest as it’s going to get.

His tone makes Malcolm want to hide and disappear forever, and his mind latches onto Gil’s words. His tone sounds harsh like he’s angry with him, disappointed in what he’s done to himself and making Gil drive all the way from work in the pouring rain to come and clean up after him.

Gil sounds hurt. It numbs Malcolm to his core, making his knees weak knowing that he’s made another mess and dragged his whole team down with him. A waste of their time, energy, and kindness.

There are thousands of families that need saving and calling them when they’re busy doing their jobs was _selfish_.

Malcolm remains quiet, guilt eating at his core.

The couch dips beside him and he can hear Gil shifting to a better position. Malcolm catches a glimpse of Dani and JT across the room but they’re not facing him. Dani has her eyes trained on her folded arms, and JT stares into his case of weapons as if he isn’t listening to their conversation.

Gil sighs and rubs his chin with his hand. He looks over at Malcolm sitting huddled in the corner, holding himself like a child who got caught doing something they weren’t supposed to. Moments like these always bring him back to a time when Malcolm didn’t speak, and his eyes never left the ground when he walked.

He’s been seeing glimpses of a broken child from the moment he got here. Malcolm refuses to talk, and Gil wonders if he scared him off.

The couch dips again, and this time Gil gets up to sit down right next to Malcolm with enough personal space between them. The moment he sits down, Malcolm tries to turn away and fix his posture to keep him from coming any closer.

Gil feels like Malcolm is pushing him away.

Gil’s elbows dig into his thighs, and he clasps his hands together and gathers the strength to keep his voice steady as his throat tightens and tears threaten to blur his vision. With a sigh, he turns to face Malcolm again.

“I’m not upset with you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Gil pauses and waits for a breath, a glance, a twitch of the fingers but Malcolm doesn’t budge. Realizing he’s not going to get any sort of reaction from him, Gil continues.

“I’m just _really_ glad that you called,” he chokes out, quickly wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. Gil looks back to him misty eyed, trying to show Malcolm that he cares, that he’s here but in the back of his mind, Gil’s afraid that he’s already lost a piece of his trust, that he’s turned Malcolm away without even knowing that he was reaching out for help.

Gil mentally beats himself up for being so _careless_. What kind of parent does that?

“I love you, kid. You know that, right?” Gil asks, almost pleading.

Malcolm’s eyes start to water and his lip curls as he fights his feelings, trying to hold back the tears but still too numb to speak. Keeping the tears at bay is harder than he thought. His heart betrays the hysteria running through his head and trades it for longing and loathing, the need to be held clashing with the need to disappear into nothingness.

Gil gently places his hand on Malcolm’s knee with a watery smile. “You know I love you, right?” he asks again, slowly losing his composure.

It’s enough to pull something deep within Malcolm, his tears starting to fall onto Gil’s hand as his breath hitches, stifling the urge to breakdown in his arms again. God, he just wants to be _held_. Still, a nagging voice in the back of his mind tells him that he’s not welcomed in Gil’s embrace, and it makes him feel so damn lonely in a room full of people who claim to care.

Malcolm clutches his fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms. In his blurry peripheral, he sees Dani and JT appear at the edges, but their faces are too high up to see. Malcolm expects their expressions are something similar to Gil’s.

Their pity is overwhelmingly _suffocating_.

Some nasty, evil part of him is starting to believe that Gil doesn’t mean it, that he’s only saying this because he found Malcolm on the floor in shambles, falling apart in the ugliest way imaginable. Not because he wanted to say it out of sincerity and genuine truth, but out of fear that he might lose him.

A selfish fear, at that.

If Gil truly loved him, it would’ve never gotten to this point.

“No,” Malcolm breathes out, barely above a whisper.

The rain has settled outside and the loft has gone eerily quiet. Quiet enough for Gil to pick up on what he just said; quiet enough for Gil to hear his own heart break.

“No...” Malcolm moans, dropping his head in his hands, elbows digging into his thighs and Gil yanks his hand away like he’s been burned. Malcolm scrunches the hair caught in his fingers and pulls at it with a death grip, tears mixing with the salt on his skin.

There’s too much boiling inside of him, too much for him to contain, and he feels it spilling over, a wave that he’s not sure he can contain much longer – a fuse ready to burst.

The team can sense it. His body goes rigid against the leather, breathing harshly out into the air, and for a moment, they all begin to wonder if he’s going to start again.

Malcolm is so caught up in rage that he barely registers the touch gliding across his skin with a gentleness he’s not familiar with. The coolness of metal brushes ever so slightly against his arm, and the heat of another body presses forward into his space. The ends of Dani’s ruffled curls skim across his hands as she cautiously places her hands on top of his. Her hand wraps around his wrist and resumes her light strokes of her thumb across his skin.

Dani’s fingers fall into a rhythm, and Malcolm starts to time his breathing with hers, inhaling for a four count and exhaling for another four. In and out, his heart begins to slow. He’ll never admit it out loud, but her touch is comforting and her presence is calming and warm, a space where the silence isn’t uncomfortable.

When words fail him, Dani knows how to talk with her actions.

“Hey,” Dani quietly says. Her thumbs come to a stop but she keeps her hands wrapped around his fists. “Look at me, Bright.”

Like a child, Malcolm slightly shakes his head.

Dani inwardly sighs, thinking it’s still worth the shot.

“It’s okay,” she starts. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“This doesn’t change how we see you, Bright. We’re not going to think less of you or pretend like this didn’t happen. Everyone has shit they don’t talk about for a reason. You don’t owe us an explanation or an apology because you did _nothing wrong_. Do you understand me?” she asks softly. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Malcolm shakes his head and sniffles, aggressively rubbing the wetness from his face. “You don’t get it,” he groans. “I screwed up.”

Dani opens her mouth to respond but she closes it again. Her mind drifts, and she frowns.

“No you didn’t, Bright. You were distraught, remember? I brought you home last night and you didn’t say a word after what–” Dani sighs in frustration. “–after what you saw at the crime scene. That’s enough to shake anyone, so I get it. I get why it was hard to process after everything we’ve seen this week.”

She lightly smooths her thumb over his skin. “I understand why you did what you did, Bright. This case was personal for you.”

Malcolm finally lifts his head from his hands and Dani loosens her grip on him. She pulls away from his face to give him room to breathe.

His face is pink from his squirming, and the bags under his eyes sag heavier than she remembers. Looking at his face and picking out every little detail about him, Dani falters at the sight but hides it behind a neutral expression, a calmness that will reach him.

She wrestles with her instincts. Malcolm doesn’t need saving, but if it were up to her, she would march into Claremont and face Martin herself. She curses the system for allowing him to continue _breathing_.

Malcolm sits up against the couch. His head turns away from everyone in a childish attempt to avoid this uncomfortable new reality.

“I couldn’t protect them,” Malcolm whispers. His chest sags as tension leaves his figure and exhaustion begins to take over. He looks as defeated as he feels, numb to his core. “I couldn’t save them, Dani.”

Dani’s frown instantly softens.

It starts to click for all of them why he reacted so strongly.

“It was too much,” Dani quietly mutters.

She reaches out to hold his hands again but Malcolm flinches back, so she lets go. She leans forward on her knees and sits up on the heels of her boots, hands on her thighs, wanting to hold him, but his need for space keeps their distance. Even though she understands what he needs, it doesn’t mean him turning her away hurts any less.

JT’s been quietly listening for the most part.

Gil can’t get to Malcolm and Malcolm won’t let Dani comfort him.

Their best options are out of luck, so JT turns from looking at the weapons and walks towards Malcolm, the click of his boots trailing behind him. His figure towers over Malcolm but there’s nothing scary about his approach. JT stands in his line of sight but their eyes never meet. He stuffs his hands in his pockets with a sigh, expression hardening in thought.

“Do you know why we were compromised in the first place?” he asks.

Malcolm stays still, blinking with no answer.

“It didn’t happen because a few thugs stalked our tail or got really good at guessing hideouts,” JT adds. “I’m sure you’re probably going to read the report despite me telling you what’s in it. But let me be clear on something: you are not at fault here, Bright.”

Malcolm shrugs like he’s supposed to believe him. “How can you be so sure?”

An inkling of frustration seeps into his bones but JT remains poised, throwing on his façade to mask how he really feels. “There was an informant. An informant working on the inside while gathering up intel for the ring. He probably agreed just so he could get a cut of the profits. There was a mole in our own house, and we were too blind to see it. So, yes, I’m positive that you aren’t at fault.”

“Those thugs made good on their promise to murder that family, Bright. Not you. You did everything in your power to keep them safe,” JT says, voice lowering into something neutral. “It just sucks to know that we’ve been chasing after groups when the threat was in our house this entire time.”

JT lowers his heads to his chest, feeling frustration trickle back as he thinks back to their time working these cases. He avoids saying that this was all for nothing, because that would discredit Bright and every single officer risking their lives to bring families back together. It’s back to square one for the precinct, but at least they have a source to go off of.

“What’s going to happen to him?” Malcolm quietly asks.

JT takes note of how his voice levels out. He’s swimming back to the surface but JT doesn’t sit in his relief for too long.

“We caught the bastard this morning strung out on painkillers, probably couldn’t be a man and face the brass. He’s resting in the hospital, but make no mistake when I tell you that he’s being handed the bible _very_ soon. Their deaths shouldn’t weigh on your conscience, especially when you had nothing to do with them.”

Just as JT swears that he’s actually making some progress with Malcolm, the cracks in their profiler begin to show.

Malcolm swiftly faces JT with his eyes misty and hair disheveled.

“I _promised_ them, JT. Those girls are _dead_ because of me, because I didn’t do my job to protect them. I should’ve seen the pattern, I should’ve known something was off but I didn’t and now they’re gone. Don’t tell me I’m not responsible for this.”

“We’re all guilty, kid – me especially,” Gil cuts in, no longer watching Malcolm tear himself apart.

“A dirty cop got away with sensitive information on my watch this entire time; that’s how it spread so quickly under our noses, why we didn’t catch wind of it until teens started going missing. Who knows how much longer it would’ve gone on if we didn’t catch him,” Gil says, frustration and guilt coating his words.

“I know you don’t want to hear this, but I don’t know how else to tell you. You can’t save everyone.” Gil watches Malcolm visibly go rigid and clench his jaw. “You can’t save everyone, and you shouldn’t punish yourself for it.”

It’s not something Malcolm hasn’t heard before, but it stings all the same. He feels like his life has no meaning, no purpose, no goal to drive him forward. He’s run himself ragged for years, profiling the most horrific monsters in the country only to come up short where it really counts.

A loss of a life is another victim he couldn’t save. Another painful reminder that he can never atone for the twenty three that he failed to save.

 _Why does it always come back to this_ , Malcolm thinks. _Why?_

Gil’s words seem to reach him. Malcolm’s back to being quiet, but Gil can see that his mind is in the room with them, listening, soaking up every word they’re saying as it circulates through him. He keeps a careful eye on him, trying to gauge how he’s feeling while also trying to maintain a promise he made to Jessica months ago.

“Can you promise me that you won’t do this again?” Gil asks.

Malcolm’s lips tighten in a line. Silence stretches through the room as he thinks it over, making everyone equally nervous, especially when he doesn’t offer one of his casual white lies.

“I’m not good at keeping promises, if you can’t already tell,” Malcolm says bitterly.

“Then call me,” Gil pleads, ignoring how desperate he sounds.

“I don’t care what time of day it is – whether its three in the afternoon or two in the morning, I want to hear your voice. If not me, then you can call Dani or JT. But this isn’t healthy, Bright, and I want you to be safe when you’re at home. Not thinking of ways to hurt yourself.”

It’s a bitter pill to swallow.

Underneath the numbness and exhaustion, Malcolm can trace the itch crawling through his body, tucked away deep into the corners of his mind begging to be used. It’s always been there. It’s always going to be there, diluted by orange bottles and bottomless affirmations demanding to be heard.

An image of Gil finding him bleeding out crosses his mind. It makes him deeply uncomfortable, nauseated by the idea of Gil finding him when it’s too late. Still, even with the haunting reality, Malcolm can’t ignore a piece of him that’s existed since the arrest. An itch that can’t be scratched, and a fix that’ll never be satisfied.

“What if I can’t?” Malcolm asks, voice softer and childlike. “What if I can’t stop it?”

Blue eyes meet Gil’s seeking an answer. It makes him stumble, short-circuit in the search for a lie to tell him, something he wouldn’t believe himself. As Gil searches for the right words to say, his hand smooths over the crook of Malcolm’s neck, gently rubbing small circles over his skin.

“If it’s always going to be there,” Gil starts, fingers threading through his hair. “Then I think it’s time you make peace with it.”

As if a light switch went off, Malcolm’s eyes widen at the prospect, and Gil keeps his gaze trained on him. The small bit of shock fades and the dust starts to settle.

His eyes fall to his lap where his hands lay. Then he looks to Dani, wondering what she’s thinking or how she’s feeling or perhaps, he’s seeking out an alternative in her. Slowly, her hands rest on top of his and her fingers mingle over his skin and wrap around his wrist with a weak grip in case he tries to pull away.

To her surprise, he doesn’t. Dani watches Malcolm’s expression become more and more resigned as seconds go by. She can see the gears turning in his head, grinding against the life of pain he’s accustomed to and the prospect of what could become of him if he accepted this instead of letting it consume him.

She gives a reassuring squeeze and a small, hopeful smile.

For the first time that day, Dani swears she sees a ghost of a smile grace his lips.

Malcolm briefly looks up at JT, who’s giving him a similar look of acceptance and understanding as he nods curtly, a small sign of letting him know he’s there and willing.

They’re _all_ willing.

His gaze falls back to the hands in his lap, taking inventory of his body, asking himself if this is okay.

If letting them in, allowing them to see the darker parts he tucks away under his bed and hides behind milligrams and caffeine is okay. The way his gut tugs at the change tells him that it’s new and different, that he should keep his secrets to himself and not bother anyone else with his bullshit.

But then again, even with the twinge clawing in his gut, there’s a beating loneliness inside of him that craves the intimacy of comfort. A longing for being held, for being taken care of, for just one person to give a shit about him every once in a while and tell him that he’s not alone no matter how full the room gets.

His fingers move under Dani’s, and she raises them thinking he doesn’t want to be touched. Instead, Malcolm grabs her hands back with a squeeze of his own. Dani looks up in surprise and watches him closely, waiting for a speck of discomfort or his towering walls to go back up and keep her locked out.

He genuinely smiles at her. It’s small and fleeting but it’s there long enough for everyone to see it, and Dani can’t help but grin.

The rain over Manhattan slows to a light drizzle, thunder still lurking in the background but not loud enough to scare Sunshine.

The air around the loft feels lighter, less chilling – more pleasant than he remembers. Malcolm thinks it might be the warmth spreading through his chest, heating his body from the lonely coldness of the tile floor to the warmth of his team surrounding him.

Their soft touches are grounding. Malcolm leans into Gil’s touch to savor it, closing his eyes to focus on the soft fingers keeping him there and the feel of Dani’s cold hands holding his.

He vaguely wonders if this is what peace is supposed to feel like.

He immediately shuts the idea down when he remembers who he is, and what he’s going through.

Malcolm thinks about his trauma, his father, and every little thing that comes with the inability to find a reason to wake up every day. He thinks about the night terrors, the mountain of medications, all of his shortcomings, and why he pushes away every single great thing in his life – albeit as rare as they come.

He thinks about never getting the chance to experience genuine happiness. What it must feel like to wake up every day and greet the sun like it rose just for you. How it must feel to sleep with someone next to you without binding restraints that keep him from bringing people home. Or what it must feel like to have a family to go home to.

Malcolm thinks about what he can’t and will never have.

Then he remembers what Gil said.

“I think it’s time you make peace with it.”

Malcolm believes that he already has, but looking around the room with three people who are willing to help him tells him that he’s got a long way to go. The fact doesn’t scare him like it used to, but he’s wading in uncharted waters and he’s not sure if he will make it out on his own.

_This must be the support system Gabrielle keeps talking about._

“Okay,” Malcolm quietly mumbles.

Gil furrows his brows a bit. “What’s that, kid?”

“I’ll try.” Malcolm says, and it takes a second for the realization to hit Gil. Then, he’s smiling at Malcolm with such warmth and sincerity that Malcolm almost forgets the dull ache that pulses behind the bandages. With a small nod and a reassuring smile, he cements it in his mind and commits to the idea without a second thought. “I’ll try.”

JT chuckles to himself at Malcolm’s side and Dani can’t help but grin as she stands up from the floor and reluctantly lets go of his hands. “I think that’s a great idea,” she says, smiling.

The room grows quiet again, but Malcolm doesn’t feel the need to say something to fill the empty space; he accepts the comfortable silence and finds some semblance of peace in it. For once, he can relax around his team without anticipating what’s coming next or curating a profile for a case.

He can let go and be himself.

Malcolm knows his father is always going to be here. Even after Martin’s long gone, his father will still be with him one way or another, so he makes an effort to remind himself that it’ll always be this way. If anything, he finds comfort in the consistency that it brings.

It doesn’t erase the decade’s worth of pain, but he has a safety net to fall back on in a group of people he can trust with his life.

“Your tea is getting cold, by the way,” Dani says, smirking. Malcolm eyes widen ever so slightly and he turns to the mug sitting on the coffee table full and untouched. “I’m so sorry,” he whines, groaning at the waste of another bag. “It’s all good,” Dani reassures him. “Chamomile isn’t really my tea of choice anyway.”

Her playful grin makes Malcolm duck his head, completely flustered. Gil chuckles and finds it just as amusing as JT does.

After a few minutes of aimless conversation, Gil butts in. “I have to head back into the office,” he states, looking at Malcolm with apologetic eyes. Malcolm nods with a small fading smile with his hand up as if to stop him. “You don’t have to explain. I’ll be fine, Gil, I promise.”

Gil grabs onto the back of his neck again to stay with him just a little longer, expression full of regret for having to leave Malcolm when he needs him. “I’m sorry, kid. I’d stay here if I could,” he says regrettably.

“I know,” Malcolm tries to hide the disappointment in his voice but it only makes Gil run his hand through his hair like he used to. Malcolm leans into the touch a bit, wanting him to stay and keep him distracted from himself until he’s ready to face his worst nightmares when the sun goes down.

“Come on,” Gil says as he takes his hand away to push himself off the couch. Malcolm’s body aches as he stands with Gil, waiting for the inevitable of being alone again. “Dani, JT, can you start the car for me?” Gil asks, eyes never leaving Malcolm.

Dani and JT take the hint. Gil offers JT his keys and he takes them, nodding at Malcolm before he heads for the door. Dani sends Malcolm a quiet apology and takes his hand, smoothing over his fingers until she reluctantly lets go.

“Text me,” she mumbles as she fixes her jacket. “I will,” he promises.

She gives him a small smile before she walks away and heads out into the slowing rain.

He’s left with Gil and the quietness of his loft. His hand starts to shake as he feels the impending loneliness when Gil finally leaves, and he’s not sure if he can afford to be alone with his thoughts right now. He can feel the tug of his mind reeling him back in, ready to toss him down a rabbit hole of self-loathing that he’s too exhausted to go through again.

Suddenly, a pair of hands pull him out of his head, and Malcolm is brought into Gil’s warm embrace.

The smell of Gil’s cologne takes him back twenty years to a memory he never forgets: the night he had his first night terror at his house. His touch is as comfortable and grounding as it was way back when, and Malcolm allows himself to be smothered in the warmth of his body and the softness of his sweater.

Gil gingerly plants a small kiss on the top of Malcolm’s forehead before squeezing him in another hug. “I love you, Malcolm,” Gil mumbles into his hair. “Don’t you ever forget that, okay?”

Malcolm can hear the tell-tale signs of Gil getting choked up by the shuddering exhales he feels against Gil’s chest. He hums in agreement in his arms, not trusting his own voice.

Gil holds him there until he’s almost ready to let go. He knows he’ll be there all day if he doesn’t leave now, so he slowly pulls back to look down at the boy holding onto him. Malcolm can feel Gil’s head lift from resting on top of his, which signals that it’s time for Gil to go. He basks in the nostalgic smell for a little while longer before he eventually pulls away.

They share watery smiles with each other, upset that they have to part ways but thankful to know that they still have each other. “I’ll call you when I get the chance, okay?” Gil says, tucking a piece of hair behind Malcolm’s ear.

He nods and wipes his eyes with the palm of his hand. “Okay.”

Gil waits with him for a few more seconds before he motions towards the door for Malcolm to follow. He picks up his coat off the floor, shakes it out then throws it on. Malcolm pulls the door open for him and waits, clinging to these last few moments before he sees him again.

Gil heaves a heavy sigh. He catches the solemn look in Malcolm’s eyes pleading for Gil to stay despite Malcolm holding the door open for him to leave. Work may be calling him, but he won’t be any good at his job if he’s constantly worried about Malcolm being stuck in his loft alone after what happened today.

“No,” Gil says on impulse, and Malcolm frowns.

“I can’t – I can’t just leave you after that, Bright.”

“You don’t have to stay,” Malcolm counters. “I’ll be fine on my own. I have Sunshine to protect me.” His playful smile tugs at Gil’s heart, and he can’t help but rustle his brown hair like he used to.

Gil fumbles with his coat and steps out of the doorway to take it off. “Earlier, I said you didn’t have to go through this alone, and I meant that. So, I’ll stay here. I’ll call JT and let him know that he and Dani can go head to the precinct without me – I’m sure they’ll understand.”

When his coat comes off, Gil hangs it back on the rack and looks over at Malcolm still holding the door. “Come on, we can do whatever you want.”

Malcolm leans on the door and balances himself with his head turned to the side, smirking in thought. “Anything?”

Gil mirrors his smile, anticipating whatever Malcolm already has in mind. “Anything. Doesn’t have to be an activity – we can sit on the couch and talk if you want to. Whatever it is, you have my complete, undivided attention.”

Gil steps away from the rack and walks through the middle of the loft then stops near the stairs with his hands in his pockets, waiting for Malcolm to join him. Malcolm gets the jest of what he’s doing, and slowly shuts the door behind him.

He watches Gil pull out his phone to make a call, so he remains by the door to give him some space even though he knows Gil doesn’t need it. The slightest bit of sunlight pierces through the dark clouds over his head and suddenly, the emptiness of his loft doesn’t seem to be so scary anymore.

He won’t have to go through this alone, and Malcolm is forever grateful that he has someone like Gil in his life.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! You can come scream at me @wonder-boy on tumblr if you wish!


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